


Cervantes Ranch

by elderwitty, squidgie



Series: Cervantes Ranch [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7663702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderwitty/pseuds/elderwitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Wyoming!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for artemis_prime that we promised, oh, a little while back. We hope you like it, sweetpea!

John dismounts and ties Eula to the porch rail, checking the water level in the trough with a glance.  Despite his father’s misgivings about her utility as a working horse, he’s never regretted buying the palomino as a 30th birthday present to himself.  She’d felt so much like an old friend when he saw her at Lorne's Horse Farm that he bought her on the spot.    
  
That same year, John's father gave him a Jeep.  Unlike Eula (and the ‘68 Firebird he's had since he turned 18), it’s eminently practical.  Where _they_ were built for speed and flash, the Jeep has been used as a sturdy runabout, and looks it.  The curling floor mats, ripped upholstery, and massive dent from an angry steer stand as evidence of John’s many hours pitching in on the ranch.  Not that the property needs him to survive, as his father often points out.  Patrick Sheppard runs nearly 9,000 head on 36,000 acres, and employs enough men to handle everything from feedings to a breech birth in an isolated pasture.  According to his father, John's only concern should be ‘taking all this over when I die’.  
  
John wipes the sweat off his nape and onto his well-worn jeans as he climbs the single step.  Grabbing an apple from the weathered half-barrel in the corner, he flicks the stem into the yard before pulling his pocketknife to cut it roughly in half.  He gives Eula the bigger piece and takes a bite of his own.  Before he even finishes chewing it, she’s nudging his shoulder and whinnying.  He chuckles and hands over the rest, admitting that she's had him wrapped around her hoof from the start.  
  
Taking off his gloves, John rubs the long stretch of Eula's face, then scratches along her jawline.  "Be back in a little bit, girl," he says, before grabbing a second apple.  Eula crunches away happily as he opens the screen and pushes the door open.  
  
"Dad?"    
  
There’s no answer.  He's probably installed at the massive oak desk in his study, working on something for the Wyoming Beef Council.  He’s never held office in that organization, but he's definitely the power behind the throne.  Every president for the past thirty years has sought Patrick Sheppard's advice - and followed it to a tee if they wanted to keep their exalted position.  Everyone learned that lesson after Lee Cutler’s ouster following a ‘professional and philosophical disagreement’ over grazing rights.  
  
John heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, and drinks it looking out the window facing the most remote section of the ranch.  He'd ridden out there again this morning, knowing full well his father wouldn't approve.  There's a huge steel-frame building that he's pretty sure is inside their property line, but he never recognizes any of the men coming and going.  They don't look like ranch hands, in any case.  The one time John brought it up, his father had cussed and told him to mind his own business.  
  
As he walks to the back of the house, John wonders what kind of mood his father is in.  The only sound besides the air conditioning whirring through the vents comes from his well-worn cowboy boots against the hardwood floor.  He knocks, enters when commanded to, and nods at his father even though he's focusing on the monitor.  John spots a paper titled 'Clayton County Mineral Report'.  He raises an eyebrow, but schools his face to blandness when Patrick grabs it and shoves it in a drawer, snapping, "What do you want?"  
  
Not reacting (It's Day Two of John's latest attempt to beat their record for altercation avoidance.  The benchmark is five days), he aims a thumb over his shoulder.  "Finished helping the hands, and did this week's inseminations.  Figured I'd let you know I'm free, in case you wanted me for something.  Otherwise I'll-"  
  
"Actually," Patrick interrupts, reaching for a buff envelope and dumping out its contents.  "The Woolsey place that sold last month?" he says, sneering at the name.  The two men had loathed each other, particularly after Woolsey refused to let Patrick buy him out.  "New owner supposed to be moving in today.  And it's _a woman_."  
  
"A woman?  Awesome."  John expects she'll liven things up.  Clayton County has been an old boys' club for far too long.  
  
"The _hell_ it's awesome," Patrick spits.  "Ain't no woman can run a ranch.  They belong in the kitchen, not out workin' the prairie.  She'll probably do something cockamamie like raise sheep or hogs, too."  
  
"Didn't old man Pembroke raise sheep back in the '70s?" John asks innocently.  Wyoming grazing, while capable of supporting just about any herbivore, has traditionally been used for cattle.  Patrick Sheppard and the Wyoming Beef Council decided long ago that this corner of the state was meant for beef, and only beef.  Anyone who's thought different has been convinced, one way or another.  
  
Patrick scowls.  "Asshole."  John isn't sure if it's aimed at him or the long-dead rancher.  "This here's beef country, boy.  And always will be, while I've got breath in my body."  
  
"Yes, sir."  John responds in the flat tone that never failed to infuriate his superior officers in the Air Force.  His father didn't approve of him joining the military, but at least John had gotten to fly in return for putting up with those in command.  The ranch has a couple of small planes for land surveys and other duties, but John rarely gets to go up in them.  
  
John turns to leave.  "Okay, well.  I'm gonna-"  
  
"You're _gonna_ ride over to the Woolsey place and find out what that woman thinks she's doing.  And then you're gonna tell her to get the hell out."  
  
John resists rolling his eyes.  If a woman bought the old Woolsey homestead, he has as much power to make her move as he does to stop a blizzard.  But what he _can_ do is turn on the charm and dig up some information.  John being gay - yet another source of strife - doesn't enter into it.  He's found that if he dresses in a certain way (black shirt, fitted jeans, and boots, topped off with leather chaps and a cowboy hat) and flashes his best smile, he can usually get damn near anything he wants.  (A notable exception was the time he heard about a newcomer who, like him, was ex-Air Force and gay.  John put on his best outfit to go say hello, and was nearly run off by a tall, lanky egghead who'd turned out to be Lorne's partner.  Luckily, Dave was willing to let bygones go on by, and John's been a frequent visitor out at their place ever since.)  
  
"So what's this woman's name?"  
  
Patrick Sheppard scans the letter before snarling, "Meredith R. McKay."  
  
"She sounds homely," John says.  He doesn't truly think that, or even care, but anything that keeps his father's ire aimed away from him is a worthy effort.  
  
"Just get rid of her," Patrick orders as the door closes.  
  
John goes upstairs to shower and change, figuring his grubby t-shirt and mud-splattered pants won't get the results he's after.  He pulls off his boots and drops them on the newspaper set to one side of his closet.  It'll be easier to clean 'em once the mud on the uppers fully dries.  He balls up his shirt and launches it at the hamper before stripping out of his jeans and boxers with one easy motion and sending them flying after it.  He toes off his socks while surveying his clothing options.  After a bit of thought, he lays out a Western-style flannel with mother-of-pearl buttons, 501s that fit _just right_ , and his newest Stetson, with the dark green hatband that sets off his eyes.   
  
Satisfied with his choices, he walks over to the large picture window that led him to choose this room after leaving the Air Force.  He lifts his face and closes his eyes to fully enjoy the early afternoon sunlight.  Most of the crew is out checking the fence today, so he's pretty safe basking naked in full view of the yard.  Still, a forgotten necessity could bring a rider at any time, so he doesn't step out on the deck.   
  
When he thinks he's gotten enough Vitamin D for the day, he pads to the bathroom and turns on the shower, ducking into the cubicle once the temperature's right.  He rolls his neck and watches rivulets full of dust swirl down the drain, letting the hot water ease his muscles.  He lathers up and rinses much more leisurely than the military would approve of, then shuts off the water.  
  
After John dries off, he runs the towel over his head and tosses it on the vanity. Glancing in the mirror, he thinks _not bad for pushing 40_.  He checks his hair and decides there's nothing he can do about the cowlicks.  His hat will cover them, anyway.  He grabs the towel and hangs it over the bathroom door to dry (in defiance of his father's decree ‘use it once and wash it’).  
  
John decides to go commando.  He fastens the 501s' two lowest buttons (dressing to the right, as usual) before pulling on his shirt.   Leaving just enough chest hair showing to attract attention, he tucks in the tails.  He finishes buttoning the fly and makes a final adjustment of his tackle.  
  
After appraising the completed look in the mirror, he nods in satisfaction and goes downstairs.  Eula whuffles a greeting when he walks out of the house, and he rubs her neck while unhitching her.   He swings into the saddle with the ease of long practice and makes for the old Woolsey ranch.  
  
~*~*~  
  
After a leisurely 45-minute ride, he considers the small U-Haul hitched behind a Toyota Prius, and wonders why someone who drives such a relentlessly urban vehicle would move out here.  He clucks at Eula as he turns her towards the house, dismounting and tossing her reins over the railing.  There's a cat on the porch, sprawling in a pool of sunshine, and John leans down to scritch its ears.  Rapidly approaching footsteps are all the warning he gets before a broad-shouldered man barrels out of the house and bowls him over.  They tumble down two steps to end up in a tangled heap in the yard, with John on the bottom as he'd instinctively tried to break the stranger's fall.   
  
As John catches his breath, he looks into the bluest eyes he's ever seen, in a face that’s cycling between embarrassment and a scowl.  After a moment of frozen indecision, John decides to act like nothing odd has occurred.  "Howdy.  My name's John Sheppard."  
  
"Sorry, sorry," the blue-eyed man apologizes as he scrambles off of John, before offering a hand and pulling him to his feet.  "Oh!"  He grabs John's hat, first aiming to replace, then thrusting it into his hands.  "Sorry," he says again.  
  
"No worries," John replies as he knocks the dust off against his leg.  He considers the newcomer's pink skin and offers him the Stetson.  "I think you need this more than I do.  You look like you're about to burst into flame.  You ever heard of sunscreen?"  
  
That earns John a sky blue eyeroll and a scoff.  "Of _course_.  I manufacture my own, actually.  It's much better than the stuff you can buy.  It's just that it's somewhere in _there_ ," he says, gesturing at the trailer.  "I haven't had a chance to find it yet.  I _knew_ I should have kept it in the car with me and Kepler."  
  
"Kepler?"  
  
"Kepler."  He points at the cat now watching from the safety of the porch rail.  
  
After 30 seconds of awkward silence, he asks, "Is there something I can do for you, Mr...."  
  
"Sheppard.  John Sheppard," John repeats.  "And you are?"  
  
"McKay.  Dr. Rodney McKay."  
  
"Ah, McKay," John says, nodding.  "My father sent me over to welcome you and your wife to the area."  
  
"Wife?" Rodney blurts, his voice shooting up half an octave, giving John an indignant look.  "I'm not married!  There's no wife, no wife _at all_..."  
  
John takes a small step back in the face of such vehemence.  "Dad heard the Woolsey ranch was bought by a Meredith McKay-"  
  
A barked laugh cuts him off.  "Yeah, no.”  Making a face that combined disgust and resignation, Rodney explains, "My full name is Meredith Rodney McKay.  I'd have been moved in long ago, but your antiquated American legal system-" he pauses and points to himself, "Canadian," before resuming, "insists on enforcing legal principles that other countries don't.  Therefore, all the contracts I signed 'M. Rodney McKay' were deemed invalid and had to be redone.  That idiocy has delayed my research six months.  Six months!"  
  
"Research?" John asks, watching the cat meander off of the porch to wend its way around and through Rodney's legs.  "You're not a rancher?"  
  
"God, no.  I needed a large tract of open space to build prototypes of... things.  The company I run - okay, the lawyers, actually - found this place.  It's big enough for what I need and in the ideal environment."  Looking down at Kepler, Rodney shakes his head.  "And, you, you little furball.  I'm sure there's something you can do here, like catching vermin in that decrepit barn 'out yonder'."  
  
John bristles. "Hey, that barn's solid.  I helped old man Woolsey's crew put it up four years ago."  
  
"So you're, what?  A rancher and a handyman?"  
  
"Whatever it takes to keep busy, really.  There's not enough for me to do at home, and I don't get to fly often enough."  Realizing that's as clear as mud, he clarifies, "I left for the Air Force at 18.  My dad's the rancher, and the hands do all the work.  Dad says I'm just here to take over managing the place when he finally decides to die or retire.  Still, he can't stop me helping out."  Hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, he grins, "Inseminated four heifers this morning."  
  
Rodney quirks an eyebrow.  "Well, its sounds like _your_ dance card is full," he says, before flushing an even deeper pink.  Indicating the trailer, he says, "Uh, listen.  I should really-"  
  
"Yeah, I'll let you get back to it." John retrieves Eula's reins and turns her around.  "So you're really not a rancher?" he asks once he's settled into the saddle.  At Rodney's headshake, he says, "That's a shame.  Land's too pretty not to run stock."  
  
 Rodney shrugs.  "As long as it won't slow my project down.  I'll get some..."  After a pause he asks, "What do you suggest?"  
  
John laughs.  "Most of Western Wyoming has cattle, but Dad's convinced you'll do something crazy like raise sheep."  
  
"Why is that crazy?" Rodney asks, chin thrust out defiantly.  "I think I _will_ get some sheep."  
  
"I was kidding, McKay!" John says, guiding Eula closer.  "This is cattle county."  
  
"Is there a law says I can't have sheep on my own land?" Rodney demands, jutting his chin again.  Damn if it doesn't make him more attractive.  
  
"Nope.  Some people might object," he says, thinking how his father would react, "but don't you mind that.  Most of 'em could stand a swift kick in the ass.  Ya know what?  If you want sheep...get sheep."  
  
"Noted.  Well, I have to finish this," Rodney says, turning toward the U-Haul.   "Afternoon, Sheppard."  
  
"Rodney," John says.  With a tip of his hat, he points Eula toward home, nodding to the satellite dish installation truck that barrels up the driveway a few minutes later.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John dismounts to grab several letters and a small package from the mailbox.  He veers towards the barn where one of the ranch hands takes Eula.  "Thanks, Eduardo," he says, walking toward the house.  
  
Leaving the mail on the hall table, John follows the sounds of activity toward the kitchen.  He finds his father at the table reading the paper and Rosalynn, their live-in housekeeper, dishing up dinner.  "Rosalynn," he says, taking off his hat.  "Dad."  
  
The level of formality in the Sheppard household is ridiculous, but it preserves the illusion of family unity.  After years of fighting, John’s all argued out.  He finds himself holding his tongue to try and keep the peace, even when his father proves - once again - that he's a master manipulator and a complete ass, to boot.  
  
Finishing his article, Patrick Sheppard lowers the newspaper and finally acknowledges John.  "You get rid of that McKay woman?"  
  
John nearly rolls his eyes, but covers with an exaggerated stretch, tossing in a yawn for good measure.  Rosalynn sets a plate in front of him.  He picks up his knife and fork, saying, "This looks really good, Rosalynn.  Thanks."  He cuts a bite of the tender steak and turns his attention back to his father.  "Actually, McKay's a guy.   His full name's Rodney McKay.  Well, _Meredith_ Rodney McKay.  He's out here to do some sort of research."  
  
" _Research_?" his father bellows, reaching for his scotch.  "This is _ranch_ land, not some goddamned lab."  John wonders how many his father's had, and whether tonight is going to be one of _those_ nights."  
  
"He did say something about sheep," John adds.  He was never going to break that fight-free record anyway.  
  
" _SHEEP_?!" Patrick roars.  "That asshole needs to leave Clayton County.  _Now_!"  
  
"I don't know, dad," John says, stacking roasted broccoli and steak on his fork.  "He's definitely a city boy, but he seems to be taking to it like a natural," he adds, before hiding his smile behind the mouthful.  
  
His father's highball glass slamming against the table usually signals a rant, but it's aborted when Rosalynn puts a gentle hand on his arm.  "You should eat while it's warm, Mr. Sheppard."  Over his shoulder, she winks at John, who ruthlessly suppresses a smile.  This is the first time in a long while that he's gotten the last word - he's going to savor it.  
  
~*~*~  
  
A few days later, Caleb Mitchell at the general store calls to tell John that his new horse blanket is in.  John parks the jeep in the side lot, and spots McKay's Prius when he walks around to the front of the store.  He adjusts his hat and enters the store, smiling when he spots McKay frowning down at a noisy tub of week-old chicks.  "Hey, McKay."  
  
"Is this really my life now?" Rodney asks in lieu of a greeting, staring at the peeping chicks crowding under a heat lamp.  "Seriously?"  He turns to John and says, "So, I get this idea to...  Well, you wouldn't understand.  Anyway, I figure I can nearly double the capacity of this thing I'm doing if I build out a specialty circuit board.  But it seems there's no welding equipment or even a soldering iron in this backwater little town, and the rest of my equipment won't be here until next week."  He heaves a grumpy sigh and complains, "I'm surrounded by chickens and saddles and boots."  Looking John up and down, he continues, "Not to mention cowboys who look entirely too good in all their Western gear for my peace of mind."  
  
John is grinning until his brain short-circuits at that last bit.  "Wait, what?"  
  
"Farming equipment," Rodney repeats.  He gestures to the store at large and says, "I could probably get everything I need to breed pigs over in the porcine insemination section, or a book on how to kill and pluck one of these cute little fuzzies once it stops laying eggs.  But a soldering iron?  No such luck!  I'm in hell," he groans as he slumps in defeat.  
  
"Listen, Rodney," John says, giving his shoulder a friendly shake and enjoying the warmth that radiates off him.  "There's an ACE hardware 15 miles up the road in Weed.  If they don't carry it, Cheyenne's only 90 minutes down the interstate.  If all else fails, there's always Denver.  Or Amazon has next-day delivery, even out here in the sticks!"  
  
Smiling, Rodney says, "Okay, okay, Little Mary Sunshine.  I get it.  It's not _quite_ as god-forsaken as I originally thought."  John has to smile at meeting someone whose sense of humor dovetails with his own.  "I'll try to make the best of it.  You know what?  While I'm here, I need to do something about Kepler.  Damn cat's driving me crazy - if he's in he wants out, if he's out he wants in.  And this morning he brought me a _dead rat_!"  
  
"You do remember that you live in the country now, right?" John asks dryly.   
  
"Yes, but why does it have to come with all these vermin?"  
  
"Varmits, Rodney," John manages through the snickering.  "Out here, we call 'em varmits."  He leads Rodney by his elbow to the pet aisle, and parks him in front of the toys, saying, "Pick out something for your cat.  I'll be right back."  John dashes to the next aisle over, tucks his choice under his arm, and rejoins McKay.  
  
Rodney, who's waiting with a massive container of catnip in one hand and two squeaky toys in the other, asks, "What's that?"  
  
"Cat door," John replies, showing it off.  When Rodney gives him an odd look, he adds, "Think of it as a housewarming present.  I'll even install it for you."  
  
Staring at the cartoon cat emblazoned on the label, Rodney says, "Oh, I see.  So the cat can get out whenever he wants, and all sorts of rabies-infected _varmits_ can get _in._ No thank you very much!"  
  
John rolls his eyes and retorts, "Not with this model."  He shows Rodney the back of the box.  "See?  There's a collar with an RFID chip, and the door only unlocks it you have it.  No unexpected visitors."  
  
"Huh," Rodney considers.  "Why didn't _I_ think of that?"  
  
John jostles Rodney out of his reverie with an elbow, nodding towards the register.  "C'mon.  If you want, I'll follow you back and install it now."  
  
Rodney scoffs.  "Are you sure you don't have another hot date involving turkey basters and bovines?"  
  
John chuckles and sets the box on the counter.  John motions at Rodney to add the cat treats, and takes the special order horse blanket Caleb hands him.  "That's nice," he says, running his palm across the fabric.  " Mr. Mitchell, this is Rodney McKay.  He's out at the Woolsey place."  With a twinkle in his eye, he adds, "Don't worry - he's harmless."  
  
" _Mostly_ harmless," Rodney says, almost reluctantly.  
  
John smiles and drawls, "My towel's in the Jeep," before giving Rodney a wink.  
  
"Jesus," Rodney laughs, "How in the hell are _you_ a nerd?  And, by the way?  Quoting Adams to me, the king of the nerds?  You're out of your depth, Sheppard."  
  
John rolls his eyes, nodding to Mitchell as he takes the bag with the blanket and treats.  "Thanks, Caleb.  Put it on my tab," he says, picking up the box.   
  
Rodney gives him a quizzical look as they walk toward the door.  "Wait.  Tab?  You mean you have a running account at this fine establishment?  Wow.  Back in, you know, the _real world_ , we pay with cash."  
  
"Yeah, well it's Dad's account," John replies.  "He holds the purse strings pretty tight, unfortunately for me.  Any spending money I have, I make doing odd jobs."  That's always bugged him, but there's not much he can do about it.  "Anyway," he says, and gets them moving again.  He walks behind Rodney, appreciating the view, and nearly gets caught when Rodney spins on his heel.  
  
"You need a ride back to my place?" Rodney asks, "Or will you and your," Rodney makes a hand gesture that seems to denote riding, "pony be moseying by my place in a few hours?"  
  
"Neither," John says, pointing around the corner.  "I'm in the Jeep.  I'll follow your fancy city car."  
  
"Hey, Al Gore's son got one of these up to 120 miles per hour."  Rodney gets in and powers down the passenger window.  "Try and keep up, will ya?"  
  
They spend the 20-minute drive to the ranch jockeying for position.  John wins by a hair, probably because he's far less worried about damaging his vehicle.  As he sets the brake, he makes a note to buy a couple tricked out remote control cars.  Rodney would love that.  (And soup his up when he thought John wasn't looking.)  
  
Rodney brings out some tools he found in the old barn.  Once John stops chuckling, he pulls out the Jeep's toolbox and handily installs the cat door.  Putting his cordless drill away, he says, "Seriously, McKay, you're gonna need a better setup to live out here."  
  
"Like what?" Rodney asks, trying to corner Kepler.  He’s having way more trouble convincing the cat to accept the new collar than John had with the installation.  
  
John sits on the couch as he considers all the things Rodney will need.  "Well, quite a lot, actually."  He starts ticking items off on his fingers.  "You need a proper tool kit, the main corral could stand clearing, the roof on the power shed needs patching, the oaks near the house should be trimmed back, you should lay in a supply of non-perishables and other emergency-"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!  How 'bout I pay you to do all that?"  At John's confused look, Rodney continues, "You said you have too much free time, and you're bored on top of it.  I could hire you - like a consultant.  Or," he says, as Kepler dodges under the coffee table, "like a handyman."  
  
John considers it, absently grabbing Kepler when he tries to scramble to freedom across his lap.  He holds him steady while Rodney fastens the new collar.  "I'll think about it, okay?"  
  
Truthfully, there's nothing to consider.  He already knows he wants to do it - especially if that means spending time with Rodney.  They’ve only met twice, but already John's more comfortable around him than anyone he's ever known.  He gets up and slides the protective cover off the cat flap.  "You ready to try it out?" he asks Rodney as he fusses with Kepler's collar.  
  
Rodney puts disgruntled cat on the floor, points him toward the doorway, and says, "Go on, you little monster.  Scat already."  
  
Kepler immediately scuttles under the couch, and refuses to come out.  After a few minutes of fruitless coaxing, Rodney gets up and goes into the kitchen, calling back, "Beer?"  
  
John checks his watch.  He's got time before dinner's ready, so he accepts the beer (a Molson, which has to have been imported from Cheyenne, if not farther), and takes a deep, satisfying pull.  Rodney plops on the couch next to him and they spend the next hour debating which Hitchhiker book is the best, the merits of the two Dirk Gently books, and scoffing at the new author's attempts after Adams' death.  
  
John stays later than he meant to, but the company was so good it was hard to break away.  And when his father tries to start a fight about his tardiness, it doesn't bother him at all.  His Rodney-shaped afterglow acts as an anti-bullshit barricade, and that puts a smile on his face.   
  
~*~*~  
  
John's in the downstairs bathroom cleaning up from his morning ride, and can hear Rosalynn singing as she cooks.  He once again thanks whatever power sent her into his vicinity; she's a lifeline to sanity in the never-ending snipe fest his father seems to delight in.  Hanging up his towel, he starts for the kitchen when there's a knock on the door.  He spots a familiar Prius out the side window, and feels himself blushing when he realizes who's on the porch.     
  
John opens the door, making sure to block the view of anybody inside the house.  Or, to be honest, from his father, actually, should he be around.  Rodney's obviously not a local.  In a county whose population is usually attired in mostly denim, he's wearing khakis and an _I'm With Genius_ t-shirt.  
  
"Um, hi," Rodney says with a little wave.  
  
"Jesus, Rodney," John says.  "How the hell did you find me?"  He looks back and realizes his father must still be in his office, so he opens the door and gestures Rodney into the foyer.  
  
Rodney snorts.  "There are roughly fourteen people in Clayton County, and only two of them are named Sheppard.  A seven-year-old with half a phone book could find you."  He looks around.  "Very nice," he says.  Noise from the kitchen catches his attention.  "Lunch?"  
  
"Yeah, with my _dad_ ," John says, his tone indicating that Rodney might not enjoy joining them.  
  
"Oh.  Okay, well... the reason I'm here.  I was thinking about our arrangement - with you helping to set me up like a real ranch, and I thought...   Anyway, exactly how much _do_ you know about sheep?"  
  
John's brain, previously distracted by all the gesturing, lights up in alarm, and he exclaims, "Shee-", before clapping a hand over his mouth.  "C'mere," he says, dragging Rodney into the sitting room.  He shoots a look down the hall to make sure the coast in clear, before closing the door and turning to a bemused Rodney.  "Jesus, Rodney.  _Sheep_?"  
  
"Yes, sheep.  Hey, you're the one who's bored and doesn’t have enough to do.  So I figured, instead of just having you work on projects, why not make you the ranch manager?'  
  
"Foreman."  
  
"What?  Oh, right.  Foreman, then.  Anyway, I've got all this land, and you're not, you know, intellectually devoid - I mean, you get Doctor Who and Douglas Adams and Battlestar Galactica, though you are so very, _very_ wrong about _Empire_ being the best Star Wars movie.  Even better, you'll have a steady stream of income.  So, what do you think?"  
  
John thinks that it sounds like fun, as well as a real job that he could do well.  But then he thinks of his father.  "I can't..." he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
Rodney crosses his arms, and juts his chin.  "And why not?"  
  
"It's complicated," John replies.  He makes the mistake of meeting Rodney's deep blue eyes.  He tries to shake off the disappointment he sees there.  "Dammit.  No, I just can't."  
  
Cocking an eyebrow, Rodney presents his knockout blow.  "Did I mention that the job entails doing land surveys?  Specifically, _aerial_ surveys?"  
  
"I'm in," John says before he can talk himself out of it.  He'll have to come up with something to placate his father, but just can't resist the combo of Rodney and flying.  
  
"Good," Rodney says.  "You wanna come over tonight?  We can figure out where to buy the sheep and make all the arrangements."  
  
John plasters on a shit-eating grin and shakes his head. "Nope."  
  
"What do you mean 'nope'?"   
  
"You need to learn how to be a rancher first."  
  
"What's so hard about that?  I have a ranch and a ranch hand.  Now all I need are some sheep."  
  
John checks to make sure the hallway is clear, then gestures for Rodney to follow him out into the foyer.  "First off, you need to buy a horse, and learn to ride."  
  
"Bullshit," Rodney retorts.  "That's your job.  I'll be too busy with my work to do shepherd-y stuff.  If you need help, you can hire more hands."  
  
"Learn to ride, or no deal," John says, looming over Rodney.  "Your choice."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Rodney finally concedes, "Okay, _fine_."  He starts to leave, but turns back (almost catching John checking out his ass) to say, "But if I get a backache, you're responsible.  You know, massage and whatnot."  
  
"First thirty minutes free," John says as he shuts the door, adding, "but _no_ happy ending!"  He's still chuckling as he walks into the kitchen for lunch.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John's father joins him as he’s finishing his lunch.  "What was all the commotion earlier?"  
  
Quaffing the rest of his tea, John says, "Looks like I'm gonna be helping out at the old Woolsey ranch-"  
  
"What in the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Think about it, Dad," he says as he stands up.  "I can find out what's going on from the inside."  His father leans back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.  Rosalynn brings his lunch over and shoots John a concerned glance.  
  
"Fine, fine," Patrick finally pronounces.  "As long as it helps get rid of that asshole sooner."  
  
John says, "Sure thing, Dad," and goes to his room to research sheep ranching.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John arrives at McKay's early the next morning and knocks on the door.  "Sheppard?" McKay yawns, obviously straight from his bed in striped boxers and a ratty t-shirt.  "What are you doing here?"  
  
"You've got to buy a horse and have riding lessons, remember?  No time like the present."  Rodney turns and shuffles away, leaving the door open.  John takes that as an invitation and follows him to the kitchen.  He watches Rodney spoon beans from a Starbucks bag into a gleaming stainless steel hopper and hit a button before slumping into a chair and propping his chin on his palm.  John takes the chair opposite and watches Rodney follow the beans' progress:  through the grinder, then automatically deposited into the gold filter where hot water starts perfuming the air with the scent of morning elixir.  Rodney sits transfixed, and John suspects the fancy coffeemaker probably cost more than Eula.  
  
Rodney doesn't stir until the carafe is about a quarter full, at which point he pauses the brewing process to fill a mug and tilt it at John in invitation.  "And we have to do that at," Rodney squints at the clock as he sits back down, "8:30am Wednesday morning, why?"  
  
"Mitchell's opened three hours ago, Rodney.  You'll need a saddle and tack before you pick out a horse.  And we have an appointment at noon at my buddy's horse ranch."  John fills the mug he'd pulled from the drainer and rejoins Rodney at the table.  
  
"Noon?"  
  
"Most folks out here start at 5am."  At Rodney's horrified look, he says, "Don't worry - I'll be taking care of most of those chores."  
  
"Oh, thank god," Rodney replies, taking a long drink.  "I am _not_ a morning person."  
  
"Welcome to Wyoming," John chuckles, then pushes a booted foot against the stringer of Rodney's chair.  "Go get ready; we've got stuff to do."  
  
Rodney shoots John a look full of _You have_ got _to be kidding_ , but John just looks back steadily until Rodney stands up, refills his coffee cup, and clomps to the stairs.   
  
"And wear some _jeans_ , for chrissake," he calls, smiling at the grunt he gets back.  
  
~*~*~  
  
They spend two hours in Mitchell's General Goods looking at saddles and tack.  Rodney enjoys it more than he thought he would, especially when his suggestion 'I should buy some assless chaps while I'm here' makes John laugh so hard he honks like a goose.  After picking out halters, blankets, a bridle, and a couple of saddles to take along - Rodney was surprised to learn that a saddle had to be correctly sized for both horse and rider - they end up at Lorne's small horse ranch on the far edge of Clayton County.   
  
"Where'd you find this one, Sheppard?" Lorne asks quietly as he and John follow Rodney into the barn.  "He doesn't look like any rancher I've ever seen.  He's almost as out of place up here in the badlands as David is!"  
  
"Badlands," John laughs, rolling his eyes.  "Like you don't have a proper sittin' room in that fancy house up the hill.  And a Jacuzzi on the back porch that you and David go dippin' in every chance you get."  
  
"True enough," Lorne says, watching Rodney cautiously check out a young gelding in a stall.  "Still..."  
  
"You find one you like, Rodney?" John calls, lengthening his stride to catch up.  "Oh, yeah, he's a beaut," John says.  Seeing something familiar in the horse's color and confirmation, he starts, "Hey, Lorne, this couldn't be..."  
  
"Yep.  He's a full brother to Eula.  Got a real sweet temper, too, this one.  He'll be just the thing for a greenhorn."  
  
John and Evan walk Rodney through getting to know the horse, which starts by telling him to limit big arm movements, and ends up with him happily brushing the gelding.  John finally asks, "Hey, wanna take him for a spin?"  Rodney replies with an enthusiastic nod and a bright grin.  "How 'bout it, Lorne?"  
  
"Sure," Evan replies, turning towards the house at David's call.  "That'll be lunch.  You boys think you can manage?"  
  
"We'll do just fine," John says, giving the horse a pat.  As Lorne walks away, John says to Rodney, "Alright, then.  Let's go get your tack."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Rodney's not a natural horseman, but he's not hopeless, either.  It takes him four tries to get the saddle on correctly, but only one time of it slipping to learn the importance of properly tightening the cinch.  John, who knew it would happen, caught him before he could hit the ground, and soothed his ruffled feathers.  _"I'm not an imbecile, you know!  I'd've believed you about the chinch without the near-death experience!"_   John refrained from telling him it's actually 'cinch', blaming the error on his obviously sky-high blood pressure.  
  
By the end of the afternoon, McKay can sit in the saddle securely, understands the basics of caring for his tack, and has watched demonstrations on how to properly feed, water, and brush a horse, and even pick a stone out of its frog.   
  
~*~*~  
  
They ride out every day, with John arriving fifteen minutes earlier each day for a week to get Rodney used to a more appropriate start time.  John has become slightly addicted to Rodney's Kona coffee, so coming over extra early to get it ready - and enjoy the sight of a thoroughly sleepy McKay being drawn down the stairs by the aroma - isn't a hardship.  Rodney never acknowledges John, just fills a cup to the brim before slumping into a chair, prepared to endure the morning, if not enjoy it.  
  
After a couple of weeks of getting Euclid tacked up without help, and three full days of wearing jeans, Rodney pulls up when John reins Eula in at a stream near the back of the property.  "This view is what all makes it worth it," he says as Rodney dismounts.  "Just beautiful."  
  
"Yeah.  And I imagine it'll be even prettier with a few thousand sheep on it, right?"  After a moment, he adds, "And my other project, too."  
  
John smiles, still not sure what else Rodney's planning for the land.  "You're right.  It's always better to have something to look after.  Land needs something to give it purpose."  
  
"Well, aren't you feeling philosophical this morning?" Rodney replies, pulling a thermos from his saddlebag.  He offers it to John, who waves it off, nourished by the wide-open sky and the trickling music of the creek.  
  
After a companionable silence, Rodney turns to John.  "I think I'm ready."  He waits for John to face him.  "Do you think I'm ready?"  
  
John picks a long piece of grass and puts it between his teeth, hoping to elicit Rodney's _You're such a hick_ face.  He smiles when Rodney doesn't disappoint, and says, "I think you _are_ ready."  Turning back to the water, he says, "How many head?"  Asking the question out loud reminds John of the schism that will likely open up between him and his father, and he doesn’t want Rodney to see his expression.  
  
"Totally up to you," Rodney says.  "You're the consultant."  
  
John considers the number he's landed on after considering the variables of grazing, water, weather, and their combined lack of experience with sheep.   "We might need to hire another hand if you decide to go big."  
  
"That's no problem," Rodney says.  "Will finding someone be?"  
  
"Nah.  I talked to an old friend of mine, a couple weeks back to feel him out.  Ronon's been traveling around doin' odd jobs, but he's game to settle in one spot for a while.  He worked a sheep farm over in South Dakota a few years back.  Says we'll need to get a couple of dogs, too."  
  
"Great," Rodney says, as he walks to his horse.  "Kepler needs someone to boss around."  
  
~*~*~  
  
John knows he's gonna be in for it any time now.  He's sitting atop Eula, with Rodney a ways behind, and Ronon Dex bringing up the rear.  They're surrounded by what feels like half a million sheep, filling every inch of the roadway and occasionally spilling over onto the sidewalks.  The dogs - two German shepherds and a Border Collie mix - dart in and around the flock to keep them in line.  
  
The flock's not nearly half a million, but it sure felt that way when they tried to move them away from the Caldwell ranch last week.  After talking over their situation with veteran sheep ranchers Steven and Elizabeth, they'd decided four thousand head was the right number, and Rodney wrote the check on the spot.  Preparation for the move took just under a week, and then they were on the road.  The first couple days were rough, but once the flock (and Rodney) settled down, the rest of the drive went pretty well.  
  
John tips his hat to Caleb Mitchell as they pass the store, twisting in the saddle when he hears one of the dogs barking.  A couple of sheep had jumped the curb and tried to run into the town's only movie theater, but Blue, the mix, convinces them to back on the right path.  Eventually, they leave the town behind.  John's sure he saw a couple of onlookers with cell phones, and the odds are good that at least one was calling his father.  John's been trying not to think about his dad's likely response, but now, with everyone in town watching the festivities, he wonders if he's bitten off more than he's willing to chew.  
  
Just under an hour later, they arrive at the McKay ranch, where John, Ronon, and the dogs (mostly the dogs) are slowly convincing the flock to funnel through the gate.  Rodney, who rode ahead to check on 'his real job', goes inside after getting settling Euclid in his stall.  John gave Rodney so much stick about the gelding's name that he retaliated by mocking John's 'many and riotous' cowlicks.  Left with no other option, John flustered him completely by not only  playing prime/not-prime, but winning the first three rounds.  ( _Seriously?  You know math, too_?)  **_  
_**  
They've been moving the sheep across mostly open terrain, so threading them through the yard and into the lower pasture is slow going until the dogs and the humans figure out how to coordinate in close quarters.  The sun is nearly down by the time they toss out some alfalfa and check the water level in the troughs. After tending to their horses and feeding the dogs (who're trained to guard the sheep as well as drive them), they knock off the worst of the dust and make for the house.  
  
Rodney calls them to the kitchen, where he's laid out sandwich makings and sides.  Ronon settles into a chair and concentrates on his enormous construction.  He grunts his approval through an entirely too-large bite as he piles potato salad and coleslaw on what little still shows of his plate.  Rodney was leery of him at first ( _Did you hire a **caveman**?),_ but they've come to an understanding based on mutual appreciation of good food.  
  
"Thanks," Rodney says, carrying a pitcher to the table.  "John?  Iced tea alright?"  
  
John looks up from his own monster sandwich assembly and nods.  He takes a bite and washes it down with tea.  "Good spread, McKay."  
  
Rodney finishes pouring their drinks and sits down, already reaching for the rye bread and horseradish mustard.  "Thanks.  I'm not much of a cook, but I can handle it until my project kicks off.  I'm glad you like sandwiches, 'cause we'll be eating a lot of them."  
  
Once their first flush of hunger is satisfied, Ronon commandeers the leftover potato salad when he goes to check on the sheep before turning in.  He'd pitched a tent in the pasture, "To get to know the land and the flock better."  He told Rodney he'd move into the house in a couple of weeks or so.  
  
As they pick at their plates, Rodney keeps up the flirting he started the day they met, even though John's been distracted since they hit the edge of town.   
  
The truth is, John's caught in a cycle of wondering if his father knows yet, imagining his reaction, and dreading their inevitable conversation.  It's easier to nibble on another carrot stick or olive than force himself to get up and go home.  He hasn't really registered Rodney's advances since he saw Dell Richards standing out front of his barbershop, glaring at John and dialing his cell phone.  
  
John's jarred out of his reverie when Rodney slaps his knees and declares, "I've got the latest Doctor Who on the DVR.  Wanna watch?"   
  
John readily agrees.  
  
~*~*~  
  
It's close to 8pm when John finally extricates himself from McKay's overstuffed and dangerously comfortable sofa.  He warns him they'll be starting extra early in the morning and trudges out to the barn to retrieve Eula.  Each step towards home winds his nerves tighter as he runs through possible scenarios: a month of silent treatment, a bellowing argument that lasts for days, being thrown out and disinherited.  His father's more likely to blow than sulk, so John figures the silent treatment's unlikely.  One thing's for sure - whatever the reaction, it will be accompanied by deep disapproval.  Finally, he makes a concerted effort to shake off his morose thoughts and enjoy the journey with his equine companion.  
  
As John passes through the little gate into the front yard, the house is dark but for the porch light.  As he gets closer, he can discern a figure sitting on the top step in front of an untidy pile on the lawn.  A spike of dread pierces him when he realizes it consists only of things he's paid for himself.  Eula comes to a halt as he makes eye contact with his father across the mound.  
  
"Dad."  
  
"Not in my family," Patrick Sheppard growls.  
  
John defiantly hikes an eyebrow skyward.  "Excuse me?"  
  
"This is cattle country, John Sheppard.  It was cattle country long before you were born, and it'll be cattle country long after we're both dead.  We're cattlemen, and there ain't no room for sheep."  His father glares like he's trying to set John on fire with his gaze.  "Especially _not in my own fucking family_."  
  
John dismounts to gather up his pitiful heap of possessions, and turns back to mount.    
  
"I paid for that saddle."    
  
John stops cold.  It's technically true, though he'd given it to John as a gift.  Carelessly dropping his armload, John pulls the saddle off Eula and dumps it next to the bottom step.  He then pulls out the wallet his father gave him last Christmas and removes his driver's license, along with the folded money.   Jamming them in his back pocket, he pitches the wallet toward the saddle with a flick of his wrist, strewing its remaining contents across the steps.  He gets back on Eula (concealing the effort of mounting bareback) and guides her away from the confrontation.  
  
He says coldly over his shoulder, "I'll send the bridle back tomorrow."  
  
They've only gone a couple of steps when his father mutters something.  Reining Eula back around, he says, "Excuse me, Mr. Sheppard?  I didn't catch that."  John hopes the 'Mr. Sheppard' burns.  If this is how a father chooses to treat his son, John certainly isn't going to admit to any familial tie.  
  
"I said you're probably fucking him, too," the elder Sheppard spits.  
  
After  due consideration John decides that, rather than merely burning the bridge between them, he'll throw fuel on the flames and take explosives to the foundation.  "I don't see how my personal life is in any way your concern," he says.  With a sarcastic tip of his hat, he turns Eula one last time, and directs her to the only place he's sure will take him in.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Even though the lights are still on when he gets to McKay's, John detours to the barn.  He's no stranger to sleeping out, but without even a sleeping bag to his name, he'll need the shelter the barn provides.  
  
As he turns Eula loose in the paddock, he catches movement in the corner of his eye - it's Dex, emerging from his tent.  The pair lock eyes.  "Sheppard."  
  
"Hey," John replies, hoping his expression conveys that he doesn't want to talk about why he's back so soon.  Or why he's bunking in the barn.  
  
Ronon gives him a two-fingered salute.  "Let me know if you need anything," he says as he climbs back into his tent.  
  
Sighing, John walks into the barn.  Grabbing a couple horse blankets from the tack room, he climbs up to the hayloft.  He busts open a bale of straw, scatters it into a rough rectangle, and spreads one of the blankets across it.  Sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed, he tugs off his boots before flopping onto his back.  He knows he needs to sleep, but his mind is too noisy.  It's replaying his father's reaction and worrying about everything he needs to take care of now that he's truly on his own.  There should be just about enough in the bank to buy a new saddle and tack, and replace some of the clothes he left heaped in the yard of his former home.  And with what McKay's paying him, he should be able to find a place to stay, maybe even start rebuilding his bank account.  
  
Forcing his thoughts away from his troubles, he turns his wrist to check the time, groaning when he remembers stashing his watch on his pommel while he sluiced off after the drive.  The thought of it dumped in the dirt with the rest of his belongings sends his mind racing again.  He figures it's around 2am, and he has another four hours or so to get through before dawn.  Thirty minutes (or so) of stewing later, he hears claws gripping wood.  There's an imperious mewl as Kepler appears in the loft, courtesy of the cat raceways Rodney had insisted on installing ( _It's his home, too.  He should be able to go anywhere he wants)_.  The cat hops up and sits on his chest, staring intently until his eyes are all John can think about.  Kepler purrs when John runs a hand down his back, then steps down to curl up in the crook of his arm.  The rhythmic rumble is hypnotic, and John doesn't even notice his father's disappearance from his thoughts as he focuses on the comforting sound.  He falls asleep between one breath and the next.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John startles awake to the sound of a heavy-duty engine outside the barn.  He reaches to reassure Kepler, but the cat has left on undoubtedly important feline business.  John gets up and stretches, twisting from side to side to loosen up his back muscles.  As grateful as he is to have had a roof between him and the sky last night, he's not as impressed with his mattress.  Flicking the straw off the blankets, he folds and tosses them down to the main floor for replacing in the tack room.  He dusts off his clothes and dons his hat before climbing down the ladder to investigate the commotion outside.  He's greeted by a very animated Rodney McKay and a couple of flatbed semis loaded with what seems to be scaffolding material.  
  
"What's going on, McKay?" he asks, arching his back to work out one last kink.  "What is all this?"  
  
Rodney looks at John in surprise before glancing at the barn.  John watches him consider all the variables and come up with an accurate picture of the situation.  "John–" Rodney starts.  
  
"Don't worry 'bout that," John interjects.  "What's going on here?"  
  
"It's the prototype," Rodney says as he gestures at the trucks.  "My new design for a high efficiency wind turbine.  It sits higher up and has a unique circular design that catches more of the available wind.  These are just the bits that hold it up - the main section's on a truck that should be here soon."  After looking towards the road like he expects it to appear, he adds, "This stuff wasn't supposed to be done until next week.  Sam must have gotten it pushed up.  Then again, with something as important as this, and as much money the government's putting into it, it's a wonder they didn't build it the minute I approved the designs."  
  
John cocks his head, picturing the turbine.  "Circular, huh?  So, a take on the Flettner sail?"  
  
"Yes, exactly!  Except I figured out how to take Flettner's original design and-" Rodney does a classic double take before asking incredulously, "Wait, _you_ know Flettner's design?"  
  
John grins as he nods.  It's always fun to fluster Rodney McKay.  "Sure.  I actually thought about making it the focus of my dissertation.  Until I decided to join the Air Force, anyway, so all I needed was my master's in engineering."  
  
The resulting facial contortions are the best John has managed to provoke yet.  There's a good fifteen seconds of sputtering before Rodney's able to articulate actual English.  " _You have a master's degree in Engineering_?"  
  
"Yup," John responds in an extra-slow drawl.  "From Stanford.  Did you think I learned about prime/not prime and the aerodynamics behind powered flight at the Am-Vets Hall?"  
  
Rodney opens his mouth as if to comment, but nothing comes out.  He's still blinking and shaking his head (John likens it to a system reboot) when Kepler begs for attention by walking his front paws up Rodney's legs and kneading his thighs.  "Did you know about this?" Rodney asks the cat.  
  
"Well, we did have a long heart to heart last night in the barn," John says with a smirk.  When Rodney looks up at him sympathetically, John puts up a hand to forestall him.  "Don't ask."  
  
Rodney, clearly struck by a thought, starts searching his pockets, dislodging a disgruntled Kepler, who ambles off to check his food bowl.  Finally managing to extract his cell phone, he punches in a number.  
  
"What're you doing, McKay?"  
  
Rodney gives him the 'just a minute' finger.  
  
"Sam!" Rodney exclaims when his party picks up.  "Hey, remember threatening to send Kavanaugh out here?  Mm-hm.  Fire him.  I found someone much better."  
  
John starts to ask a question, but Rodney silences him with a backhanded slap to the shoulder.  
  
"Oh, he is?  That's too bad.  Well, he'll find out soon enough."  After a pause, he adds, "Sweet.  Thanks, Sam!"  He thrusts the phone back in his pocket and rocks on his heels, looking smug.  
  
After it becomes clear that no explanation is coming, John demands, "What the hell was that about?"  
  
Rodney's smile broadens as he leans forward.  "You're hired."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," John snaps.  "Did you forget your coffee this morning?  I'm working with Ronon and the flock - figuring out shearing schedules, who goes to market, and everything else concerning the ranch."  
  
"Not anymore.  Ronon can do all that - we'll hire another hand if he needs.  Starting now, you're in charge of all this," he says, gesturing at the turbine-hauling semi coming up the drive, preceded by a 12-passenger van.  "Actually, until you tell Ronon about his promotion, you're in charge of the ranch _and_ you're the on-site project manager for Pegasus Power Systems."  
  
"Pegasus Power..." John says, head swimming with everything that's happened since yesterday.   
  
"Uh-huh.  I'll have Sam fax the contracts over this afternoon.  That is, if you're interested," Rodney smugs, sure of the answer.  
  
John considers all the angles.  It's in his field, intellectually challenging, and he and Rodney get on like a house afire.  Most of all, it'll give him true independence from his father for the first time since he came home.  And if he can talk Rodney into hiring _two_ new hands (Markham and Stackhouse get back into town at the end of the month), he'll be able to work for Pegasus Power full time.  Interested?  He's so interested he can almost taste it.  
  
Still, John's no pushover.  Ignoring the workers piling out of the van, he asks, "But I still get to fly?  Do the aerial surveys?"  
  
"Of course.  But only after you complete your first job."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, John asks, "I'll bite.  What's my first job?"  
  
Rodney points to the tall, scowling fellow berating the van driver.  "See the jerk with the ponytail?"  
  
"Yeah," John replies.  He hasn't seen so many hostile stares directed at one man since the Colonel cancelled mail call after an errant soccer ball hit his tent.  
  
"That's Kavanaugh, the _old_ project manager.  Fire his ass and get him off my property," Rodney commands, turning on his heel to climb the porch steps.  He turns back and catches John's dumbfounded expression.  "Well, go on.  Chop chop!"  
  
John rolls his eyes and walks over to the group.  "Mr. Kavanaugh?"  
  
"Who are you?" he demands, frowning at John as he checks the list on his clipboard.  
  
"I'm John Sheppard.  How 'bout you and I go for a walk?"  He leads Kavanaugh away from the rest of the crew.  
  
~*~*~  
  
As soon as Kavanaugh stops bitching about all the projects he turned down to take this job, he starts threatening to sue everyone on the ranch (up to and including Kepler).  John leaves him alone for five minutes to calm down and make his flight arrangements, but that turns out to be a mistake.  When he returns, the jackass has cancelled the crew's motel reservations.  John snatches the company-issued cell out of his hand and frogmarches him back to the parking area.  Tossing him bodily into the back of the van, he gives the driver strict orders to go directly to the airport - and to hold on to his phone.  Carl laughs and hands it out the window, saying, "To avoid temptation."  Ignoring Kavanaugh's sniveling about needing to book his ticket, John cheerfully waves as he's driven away.  
  
John hits redial and sweet-talks the motel owner into giving their rooms back.  It's pretty easy: John competed against Zach in peewee rodeos all through elementary and middle school, but the rivalry never affected their friendship.  As Zach reminisces about his rein breaking in the pole bending event, John watches the men divide themselves into two teams and start organizing the scaffolding.  Judging by their expressions and the good-natured jeers they trade, they're thrilled to be rid of Kavanaugh.   
  
After the call with Zach winds up, John calls Widow Thayer and orders a variety of sandwiches, sides, and drinks to be delivered at noon.  Calling the crew over, he introduces himself before showing them around.  They start with the two (sorta fancy) port-o-potties at the back of the barn and end up at the barn stall that's been set aside for their belongings.  He makes sure the foreman has the cell number, tells him to start a list of things the site could use, and lets them get back to work.  John keeps an unobtrusive eye on them as he considers logistics for the project.  He makes a mental note to call Hattie over at Saratoga Bottling - some city folks are leery about drinking water fresh from the pump - and to pick up a refrigerator and microwave for the crew.  Sean, Thayer's driver, honks as he pulls up the drive, breaking John's reverie.  John's sharp whistle brings the crew to collect the food, and he leaves them eating al fresco as he goes to the house.  
  
"Boys're doing pretty good," John says as he walks into the kitchen, where Rodney's working on his laptop at the table.  "The build team has the base level up and the second laid out, and the ground team is halfway done driving stakes to secure the platform."  
  
"You wouldn't think something that heavy needs anchoring, but better safe than sorry," Rodney says without looking up.  "Kavanaugh's gone?"  
  
"Yep."  John gets a glass of water.  "He's on his way back to Cheyenne.  Didn't have anything nice to say about _you_ ," he smirks, to get a rise out of Rodney.  
  
Rodney rolls his eyes.  "No love lost there.  Still, thanks."  
  
"Hey, apparently it's my job," John says.  He takes a sip of water and grimaces.  He holds it up to the light - it's crystal clear.  It doesn't smell either, but there's an odd metallic taste, and John wonders if there's a problem with the well.  "Water taste funny to you?"  
  
"Hm?"  Still wrapped up in his work, Rodney takes a swig of his iced tea.  "Tastes fine to me."  
  
John waits for Rodney to say something else, but he's intent on his screen.  Even the scraping of the chair as John pulls it out gets no response.  John rolls his eyes and figures he should get used to it if he's going to work with McKay.  Clearing his throat, he asks, "How much leeway do I have?"  
  
"Oh, hey," Rodney says, suddenly back with him.  He double-clicks and hits a few keystrokes, setting the printer on the hutch chattering to life.  He gestures with a thumb.  "Your contract.  Salary's $92,500 a year, plus bonuses for meeting deadlines."  He looks up, adding, "You get three weeks' vacation, and you have complete say over hiring, firing, and adding staff if needed - plus oversight on supplies and...well,  everything."  
  
The amount startles John, though he tries not to show it.  He collects the paperwork and sits back down to look it over.  The terms are generous, and it couldn't have come at a better time.  Years of living with his father, however, have taught him to ignore all silver linings and pay close attention to the dark clouds that are always looming.  "Okay.  And what happens when they're done?" he asks, gesturing out the window.  "Or if the prototype doesn't perform to spec?"  
  
"Oh, it'll work.  There's no doubt about that," Rodney says confidently.  "After a few weeks of running 24/7, we'll build the rest of the field.  I estimate that'll take around 36 months."  
  
"And after that?" John asks, figuring he'll be out of a job at that point.  
  
"We'll scale down, of course," Rodney says.  "But I'll still need an on-site manager to deal with maintenance and other issues.  Anyway, if you get bored, there's always the sheep."  
  
Rodney has the audacity to bob his eyebrows up and down, and John is tempted to dope-slap the smugness right out of him, but settles for a friendly glare.   
  
Closing the agreement, John says, "So, to start - we need a break room so the guys can leave stuff here instead of hauling it back and forth every day.  We can add on to the barn or park a crew trailer out front. Actually, electrical's easier if we go with the trailer.  Either way, I'll get a commercial microwave and refrigerator.  I set up an account at Thayer's Deli for lunch delivery every day, and I'll call the bottled water service right after this."  He takes another sip of his water and grimaces.  "We might want a cooler in here, too."  
  
Rodney, drawn to his screen by a _ping_ , nods absently.  
  
"Kavanaugh cancelled the motel reservation, but I got it back.  D'ya think the company'll care if I use his room 'til I find a new place?"  
  
Rodney jerks his attention back to John.  "Don't be stupid.  There's plenty of room here.  Unless-"  He hesitates, frowning.  "You really want your own place?"  He shifts into puppy-dog eyes.  
  
John can't help but smile.  "You got a pen?"  
  
Rodney hooks a thumb at the counter.  "Somewhere over there."   Two seconds later, he's muttering about incompetent engineers and typing furiously, and John might as well be invisible.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John calls the crew in at four-thirty and brings them up to date on the crew trailer, lunch delivery, and other arrangements before thanking them for a great first day and sending them off to the motel.  Set up at the kitchen table with a pad of paper rescued from under the toaster, he calls Evan Lorne and pumps him for information about local construction companies.  He and David had their house remodeled last summer, and Evan seems happy with the results (or he could just be getting laid regularly).   
  
John's making a detailed note on exactly why they'll be avoiding Avrett Brothers Builders when there's a knock at the door.  He quirks an eyebrow at Rodney, meaning, 'Your house - _you_ answer it'.  Rodney sighs as he gets up.  
  
Evan's still venting about the damage a careless operator with a Bobcat can do to an herb garden in just four minutes when John hears Rodney ask, "Can I help you?"  
  
"Is John Sheppard here?" a familiar voice timidly asks.   
  
"Rosalynn?"  John tells Lorne he'll have to call him back, and hurries to the hall.  Rodney steps back to let John out on the porch.  "What're you doing here?  Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm so sorry about what happened, John," Rosalynn says.  "Your father-"  
  
"Is an asshole," interjects Rodney.  John snorts.  He agrees, but doesn't want Rosalynn worrying about him.  
  
"I managed to get some of your things," she says, gesturing at her truck.  
  
"Thanks, Rosalynn," John says.  He's suddenly self-conscious about not having showered that morning, (though he'd scrounged a new toothbrush from McKay's bathroom cabinet).   
  
"It's not a lot," she says, stepping off the porch, "but it's all I could save without him catching on.  He had no right to throw your stuff in the trash!"  
  
"Hey, this is great," John says as he hoists two of Hefty's finest out of the bed.  "But don't worry about me."  He drops the overstuffed bags and gathers her in for a hug.  
  
Rosalynn pulls away to give him a long look.  "I wish I could afford to quit, honey - I'd give him a piece of my mind for how he treats you."  
  
"Thank you," John says, stealing another hug.  
  
Giving John a comforting pat on the arm, Rosalynn says, "I'd better get a move on.  I told him I was dumping the trash and stopping at Mitchell's for a few supplies."  
  
John grimaces, aching for his friend.  She's clearly on his side, but stuck in a bad situation.  "Best get going, then," he says, holding the door as she climbs into the cab.  
  
The engine cranking up startles several sheep away from the nearest water trough.  "See you 'round, John."  
  
"See ya, Rosalynn," he replies, patting the window frame.  And then she's off, rumbling down the drive.   
  
John, standing next to two paltry bags that hold everything he has in the way of possessions, watches until the taillights fade into the darkness.  With a sigh, he picks them up and turns for the house.  
  
Having waited by the door, Rodney reaches for one of the bags as John crosses the porch.  "Let me," he says.  "There are a couple empty rooms upstairs, so you can have your pick."  
  
"Cool," John replies, and lets him lead the way.  
  
~*~*~  
  
As of dawn the next morning, John is so busy he barely has time to think, much less dwell on the situation with his father.  Any time not spent ensuring that the scaffolding goes up without a hitch is dedicated to helping Ronon with the sheep.  Thursday morning, eleven days after he dropped his bags in the east-facing bedroom (sarcastically humming _Yessir, yessir, only **two** bags full _ to himself), the crane lifts the turbine off the truck and gently sets it atop the platform.  The guys insist that lunch can wait 'til it's fastened down and each bolt is checked at least twice.  
  
Surrounded by his whooping crew, John itches to turn it on, but the heavy-duty power line connecting them to the grid hasn't been installed.  Since that's not scheduled until Monday, he tells the men to take a well-deserved long weekend.  He even fully intends to sleep in on Saturday.  
  
John spends Friday morning liaising with the power company and finishing up the minutia of a new job.  Over lunch, Ronon informs him that several ewes are in estrus, so he splits the afternoon between online research into ovine fertility, and running into town to gather supplies for artificial insemination.    
  
Sleeping in ends up jettisoned in favor of getting to know some of their flock entirely too well.  When Rodney wanders out to the barn mid-morning, he nearly hurts himself cackling at their get-ups.  He finally regains control and declares it totally worth coming out 'to see what you two are getting into.'  He staggers out, still chuckling, only to reappear two minutes later.  "Oh, hey.  Lunch is on."   
  
John falls in bed that night with a comfortable burn to his muscles and a renewed plan to sleep in, even if 'late' translates to 7am.  The years he spent in the Air Force - reinforced by life on the ranch - have made rising with the sun a habit he's unlikely to break.  
  
He's asleep for all of ten minutes when the boom of a shotgun brings him rocketing to his feet.  John dresses quickly and grabs a flashlight on his way out.   Once he reaches the paddock, the beam highlights the blood-splotched coat of a dead sheep.  Ronon is watching the surrounding darkness with his shotgun at the ready.  "What's going on?"  
  
Ronon spares him a glance.  "Coyotes."  He goes back to glaring into the distance, as if daring them to come back.  
  
"Shit," John exclaims.  "They get any others?"  
  
"Nope, but they'll be back.  It'll be worse after the first snow."  
  
John considers the situation.  "We might could get a couple more dogs.  And Markham and Stackhouse will be here in a few days.  That'll help."  
  
"During the day, maybe," Ronon replies.  "McKay should be armed, too, just in case."  
  
John nods.  McKay has to learn to handle a weapon.  He'll undoubtedly bitch and moan, but it's gonna happen.  John turns toward the house, then pauses.  "You need anything?"  
  
"Nah."  Ronon leans down and heaves the carcass onto his shoulder.  "I'll stick her in the cooler - we can butcher her later."  
  
John nods and walks back to the house.  He sticks the flashlight on its charger and climbs the stairs, pausing at McKay's door.   He snorts at the soft snoring, amazed Rodney'd slept through the ruckus.  "It can wait 'til morning," John thinks, continuing to his room.   Stripping off for what he sincerely hopes is the last time tonight, he flops into his bed, and is asleep in moments.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John sips coffee at the kitchen table, wondering how to convince Rodney about the firearms training.  He'd been awakened an hour ago by the sounds of Ronon assembling his breakfast and came down to find him drinking coffee straight from the carafe.  John arched an eyebrow and Ronon froze briefly before chugging the rest.  He grunted a greeting as he started a new pot, then headed out with a wave of his enormous egg-and-everything sandwich.  
  
Twenty minutes later, John watches Rodney stumble downstairs in his pajamas and tattered blue robe.   
  
"Morning, McKay," John says, raising his mug.  
  
"Nnmgh," Rodney mutters as he zombie walks to the coffeemaker.  John hopes Ronon didn't leave any lip prints behind- not that Rodney's in any condition to notice.  
  
"I slept like a baby, thanks for asking.  Just got up for the shotgun blast."  
  
"Shotgun?" Rodney spins to face him, splattering coffee on the floor and his bare feet.  "Ow, dammit!"   Now fully awake, he grabs a kitchen towel and throws it on the spill, demanding, "What shotgun blast?"  
  
John swallows his coffee in preparation for the reaction.  "Coyotes," he says, grinning as Rodney's eyes get very big.  "Hey, there's a reason they named it the Badlands.  There're more wild critters out there than you can imagine.  Ronon ran 'em off, but we lost a sheep."  
  
"Well, shit.  Good thing he's good with a gun."  Rodney tosses the towel in the sink and grabs the coffee pot and his cup.  
  
"And you will be, too," John says.     
  
Damned if Rodney doesn't miss his mug again.  Instead of cleaning it up, he spins around to demand, 'What in hell does _that_ mean?'  
  
"It means we're goin' to Mitchell's to pick you up a shotgun and stock up on ammo.  And this afternoon you'll have your first shooting lesson."  
  
Rodney obviously isn't convinced, but doesn't immediately protest.  John lets him work it out for himself, and watches him drop into a chair with a thud as the necessity hits home.  "I should have expected something like this," Rodney says.  "It's not like we're in Yaletown in Vancouver."  
  
John takes Rodney's mug and gets up to pour him a cup of coffee.  Setting it down next to his hand, John asks, "Pancakes and bacon okay?"  
  
Rodney nods absently, and still seems a million miles away when John puts the plate in front of him ten minutes later.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John spends his time on the drive to Mitchell's trying to school his expression and dodging Rodney's dangerously animated gestures.  His diatribe on how he _should've known_ _I'd be outfitted with a gun as soon as I moved out to this beast-filled hinterland_ almost sends them into the ditch as John chokes back his guffaws.  
  
John drives around to let Rodney wind down a little, only then pulling into the lot and parking.  He introduces him to Mitchell's nephew, Chuck, who gives them a rundown of each model.  
  
Rodney listens almost patiently, but when Chuck finishes he blurts, "I'm a scientist from metropolitan Canada!  How am _I_ supposed to choose which one is best?"  After a small break to nearly hyperventilate, he turns to John.  "What are you used to?  Wait!  What does Ronon use?"  
  
Picturing Rodney trying to fire Ronon's custom-made triple-barreled shotgun, John shudders.  "Nope.  No way.  You're not ready for anything like that."  
  
John lays a steadying hand on Rodney's shoulder.  "Tell you what - how about we get a couple Remington 1897s?  They're pretty forgiving, which helps when you're a beginner.  Plus, you'll be able to use either weapon, and we'll only need the one size ammo."  Chuck ducks into the back and quickly returns with two long cardboard boxes.  "Thanks, Chuck.   Throw in half a dozen boxes of shells, willya?"  
  
"Coming right up," Chuck responds, punching buttons on the till to retrieve the cabinet keys.  
  
Once the shotguns are sorted, John takes the opportunity to pick up replacements for what Rosalynn wasn't able to rescue.  He's okay for clothes, but needs essentials like toothpaste, a razor, and a replacement wallet to stop feeling like he's just squatting in Rodney's spare room.  
  
They drive home in a Prius nearly bursting at the seams.  The new saddle and tack takes up the entire back seat, while the trunk holds the shotguns and ammunition, along with John's personal stuff.   Despite all of Rodney's teasing, it doesn't contain a single iota of hair product.  (Mainly because Mitchell's doesn’t carry his brand, not that he'll be admitting that.)  John spends the trip trying to convince Rodney that the ranch needs a truck.   
  
"Seriously, what _is_ it with you rancher types and pickups?" Rodney asks, turning into their long driveway.   "Every other vehicle out here is some 4-wheel drive monstrosity that looks like it could flatten a school bus without blinking."  
  
John deliberately injects extra twang into his voice as he asks, "How many sheep you figure'll fit in the back seat?  And I hope you sprang for the Scotchgard - lambing's an awful messy bizness."  
  
Rodney pulls up next to the porch, sets the parking brake, and turns to John.  "So," he says brightly, "what kind of truck are we getting?"  
  
John hides his triumphant smile by ducking his head and getting out.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Just past the spinners on the fishing tackle aisle, Rodney'd started muttering about the power conduit controls.   And despite their lively discussion in the car, it was clear that most of his brain was running software simulations, so John made the executive decision to delay target practice 'til tomorrow.   He starts to say so, but ends up watching an oblivious Rodney wander into the house, trailing phrases like _optimal blade pitch_ and _reducing inefficiencies in transferring to the grid_.  John chuckles and gets ready to hump his new tack to the barn.  
  
John takes Eula for a short ride to check out his new gear and also keep her from getting restless.  After rubbing her down and turning her out in the paddock, he goes inside to study the contracts and schematics for hooking into the grid.   Though he'd much rather be enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, he wants the electricians' visit in the morning to go without a hitch.  
  
The change from having altogether too much free time to overseeing two enormous undertakings has been quite an adjustment.  Luckily, Ronon's only needed his help once or twice, which allowed him to focus on the windmill project.  John hasn't felt overwhelmed by the responsibility, and thinks he's doing a pretty good job.  
  
His only real concern is that even though Rodney is now his boss, they still flirt incessantly.  _He_ is anyway, and he's pretty sure Rodney is, too.  His father always advised _Don't shit where you eat_ and while it's a typically crude Patrick Sheppard-ism, he can see the logic in it.  A failed romantic relationship with Rodney - or even a quick roll in the hay - could easily screw up his new life.   
  
Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, he redirects his attention to tomorrow's schedule.  
  
Later that evening, John and Rodney stay up to watch a Torchwood rerun and talk about the next morning's grid hookup.  When they go to their separate rooms just after midnight, John's brain won't stop going over the details.  
  
~*~*~  
A sound in the kitchen rouses John from the fitful sleep he'd finally fallen into around 4am.  It's way too noisy to be Ronon (who's startled him at least a dozen times by appearing silently, usually right behind him).  He pads downstairs to check it out and finds Rodney measuring beans into the grinder, jittering enough that it's likely his third pot of the day.  "Mornin', McKay.  You're up early."  
  
McKay spins around, strewing beans along the counter.  "Aggh!  Jesus, give a guy some warning!  Anyway, I was too excited to sleep.  Today's the big day!"  He rounds up the scattered beans and dumps them in the grinder, pulsing it precisely five times before tilting them into the filter and adding water.  (There'd been a long dissertation last week on how to 'get the best out of your beans'.)  
  
Raising an eyebrow, John considers that it might be the fourth pot.  
  
"How 'bout I make you some eggs?" John suggests.  Rodney bounces on his toes, too entranced by the first drops sizzling into the carafe to answer.  John pulls out the skillet anyway, figuring Rodney should eat something to dilute the caffeine.  
  
During breakfast, the power company calls to push their arrival from 10am to noon.  John short-circuits Rodney's rant by producing a gooey butter cake from the frig.  Two slices each of the decadent sweet later, a vehicle pulls in and they go out to greet the electricians, who must be running early.  Instead, they find the usual van spilling their excited erection crew.  It turns out that they took a vote and decided to come watch even though their job is over until the prototype proves useful.  
  
Rodney's relentless pacing makes it impossible to concentrate on a final scan of the schematics, so John chivvies him out to the barn.  A quick ride around the property seems like a fine alternative to throttling his boss.   
  
They get back to see two power company trucks and an executive-type sedan pulling up.  Rodney hops down and goes to greet them while John takes Eula and Euclid for unsaddling.  Afterward, he jogs back out and introduces himself to the crowd.  (Four suits to supervise the two electricians who'll actually be doing the work seems a bit excessive, but he supposes they don't have many opportunities to see high-capacity power lines being installed.)  45 minutes later, as the techs are giving the connection a final check, a mud-spattered car jolts to a stop in the parking area and decants a wild-haired man with glasses.  He hurriedly joins them, whereupon Rodney greets him without looking up from his laptop.   
  
"Took you long enough."  
  
"If you did not live in exact middle of _nowhere_ , McKay, I would have been much sooner!"   
  
While John is thinking his accent might be from a former Soviet bloc country - Yugoslavia, maybe - the newcomer extends his hand.  "Radek Zelenka," he says. "And you are?"  
  
"Oh, that's John," Rodney tosses over his shoulder.   
  
John rolls his eyes and elaborates.  "John Sheppard.  It's nice to meet you."  Radek's grip is surprisingly strong for such a wiry fellow.   
  
Rodney inputs one last sequence before joining them.  "John replaced Kavanaugh as project manager, thank god.  He's also my ranch foreman, and a classically-trained ovine inseminator."  
  
"I've done that _a half-dozen times_!  Jeez, McKay," John remonstrates, bumping Rodney with his shoulder.   
  
"It only takes once," Rodney retorts.  He starts to say more, but his laptop beeps.  "Okay, everybody ready?"  
  
There's a chorus of agreement, and Rodney claps his hands on his thighs.  "Here we go!"  He has one of his engineers disengage the brake so the turbine can start rotating.  When it's up to speed, Rodney motions a power company tech to let the electricity flow into the grid.  
  
Radek crowds Rodney in order to check the readings over his shoulder.  They start discussing the values flashing across the screen in increasingly excited tones.  When the technical jargon leaves John behind, he starts watching the turbine twist in the wind.  He's nearly mesmerized when Rodney crows, "And here we go!"  
  
John angles for a glimpse of the scrolling numbers.  "How's it doing?"  
  
Rodney beams at John and the rest of the crew.  "18.2 percent over the previous estimate.  **18.2**!"  
  
There are cheers all around, but John persists, "Okay, but what does that mean, exactly?"  He doesn't want to sound stupid, but not knowing the prior projection makes that figure meaningless.  
  
"It means, John Sheppard, that if this level of output is sustainable we won't just be powering California.  We'll be able to light up _the entire West Coast_ from right here!  And all it'll take is a few dozen windmills."  
  
John can't help grinning at Rodney's enthusiasm.  "Wow, that's great!  But..."  
  
"'But'?  'But' what?  What 'but'?"  
  
"We're keeping the sheep, right?"  
  
Rodney closes his eyes and shakes his head, before giving John a rueful laugh.  "Yes, John, you can keep your smelly pets."  
  
"You have sheep?"  Zelenka looks around like he expects them to magically appear.  
  
"Jesus, Radek, keep it in your pants!  You can meet 'em later."  
  
John lets out a donkey laugh when Radek simultaneously flicks Rodney's ear and kicks him in the butt.  
  
~*~*~  
  
After the excitement dies down and everyone else leaves, John convinces Rodney and Radek to relocate to the kitchen table.  He hands them each a beer and enjoys listening to them geek out as he assembles dinner.  Ronon joins them for the meal, and Radek starts quizzing him about the sheep-running side of the operation.  Rodney's surprised to learn that Radek grew up on a farm in Dolní Loučky, a rural village outside of Brno.  ("I though you raised pigeons?"  "I could hardly keep goats on roof of apartment building.")  Afterward, Ronon gives him a tour of the barn and the two nearest pastures.  John and Rodney tag along, not contributing to their discussion on animal husbandry.   Rodney's reliving the afternoon's triumph, and John's distracted by the glow of the full moon highlighting Rodney's eyelashes.  
  
When they get back to the house, they break out the _really_ good scotch to celebrate.  Soon, the bottle's a few inches down and Rodney decrees that Radek stay the night, ("Every brain helps, even if they're not in my league").  Thanks to his father, John has always associated scotch with bad moods and scathing criticisms, he's happy to see it have a different effect on these two.  Currently, they're trying to top each other with stories of useless co-workers and lab mishaps.  He laughs when Rodney nearly falling off the couch at Radek's latest tale, involving a tortoise and an eminent Swiss physicist.  
  
John excuses himself at 11:30pm, shaking off their calls for him to join in.  He reminds Rodney that he and Radek have monitoring to do in the early morning and suggests they turn in soon.  He brushes his teeth and changes into sleep clothes to the sounds of their conversation. It's not loud enough to keep him awake, and he lets the murmur wafting up the stairs carry him into slumber.  
  
Some time later, a creaking noise wakes John.  He turns over and finds Rodney in his doorway.  "McKay," he says, rubbing his eyes.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Rodney says.  Instead of retreating, though, he stumbles nearer with a big goofy grin.  John patiently waits to hear about whatever emergency has come up.  Rodney finally sputters, "I... I just..." before he runs out of steam and sits on the edge of the bed.  He keeps giving John the goofy look, and finally blurts out, "Thanks," before leaning in.  John figures he's about to either be hugged to pieces or passed out on.  (He's not sure which would be more awkward.)  
  
It ends up being a hug, a long one.  When it's gone on long enough to be uncomfortable, he pats Rodney on the shoulder and says, "Let's get you to bed."  He struggles to sit up since Rodney refuses to release his hold.  He finally succeeds and gets up, steadying Rodney.  He walks the tipsy scientist to his own room and sits him on the edge of the bed.  John unties Rodney's shoes and pulls them off, tucking them under the side table.  John decides to hightail it as Rodney stands up and starts wriggling out of his pants.  "Good night, McKay," he says from the doorway as Rodney kicks his khakis against the wall and flops back onto the bed.  
  
"'Night, John," Rodney mumbles as he turns over.  John pulls the door closed ... right after he sneaks a peek at Rodney in his t-shirt and boxers.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John is up at daybreak like normal, and hears a clamor as he comes down the stairs.  It's too noisy for Ronon, and too early for Rodney.  He enters the kitchen to find their Czech houseguest - hair sticking at odd angles - trying to put assemble a meal that seems to involve an inordinately large number of potatoes.  "Morning, Radek."  
  
"Good morning," Radek replies, obviously unaffected by last night's drinking.   He bobs his head as nimble fingers continue to peel potatoes. "I thought I'd make 'morning after' breakfast.  I know how McKay is after partaking."  When John gives him an enquiring eyebrow, he adds, "Nothing like that.  Colleagues only.  Besides," Radek says as he puts down the potato peeler and pins John with a knowing look, "I think he has other interest, no?"  
  
The blush that quickly suffuses John's face is answer enough, and he rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment.  
  
"Hm, is as I thought."  Radek winks before mercifully changing the subject.  "Here.  You know your way around kitchen.  I need flour, eggs, and sour cream.  I'm making latkes."  
  
Radek makes a mound of the crispy potato cakes, and their delicious smell pulls Ronon inside for a second breakfast.  John goes to retrieve Rodney before they all disappear, and guides his hung over and grumbling charge down the stairs.  
  
"Why didn't you let me sleep?" Rodney grouses.  "And what is that _smell_?"  Rodney stumbles to the drainer and grabs a mug, his brows furrowed as he tries to free the carafe from the coffee maker.  The operation is too complicated in his current state, so John nudges him aside, then uses the filled mug to lure Rodney to the table.  
  
"Oh, být zticha," Radek says as he sets a plate in front of Rodney.  "You've eaten them before."  
  
Rodney's response is derailed when John slides his coffee closer.  "At least _someone_ in this house has sense," he says after a long swig.  Watching Ronon stuff half a latke into his mouth, he asks, "Shouldn't you be shearing or inseminating something, Chewie?"  
  
"Heh heh heh...  Chewie."  John ignores the daggers Ronon glares at him.  
  
Ronon suddenly snags Rodney's coffee and gulps it down, ignoring his protests.  John chuckles until Ronon flicks his ear and says, "Shut it, Sheppard."  He hands the empty mug to Rodney and announces menacingly,  "I'll be outside with the clippers, Baldy," before leaving with a smirk.  
  
The room is silent for long moment before Radek opines, "That is a ginormous man I would avoid pissing off, Rodney."  
  
"Naw, he's a pussycat," John replies.  
  
Ronon sticks his head back in the door.  "I heard that, Sheppard."   He gives John his most menacing look before disappearing again.  
  
John, after giving him a chance to pop back in, asks, "So, what's the plan for today?"  Rodney, having just taken an enormous bite of latke, pushes his empty cup at John.  John gets up to pour a refill and hands it to Rodney, who tips it up thirstily.  Radek watches the byplay with a knowing smile.  
  
"We need more data to accrue," Rodney says, "so I guess we're pretty much free for the next couple of days."  
  
Pushing his glasses up his nose, Radek says, "Actually, I want to take a sample of your water into Cheyenne.  Have you noticed the chemical taste?"  
  
Rodney starts to answer, but John beats him to it.  "It started a couple weeks back.  I was gonna have someone check the well, but haven't had a chance."  He points to the five-gallon dispenser on the counter, "That's why we started the water service."  
  
"Da," Radek replies around a mouthful of latke.  "Good choice."  
  
John says, "Okay, considering we're on our own and you're in a waiting pattern for data, I think today's a good day to learn how to fire a shotgun."  
  
"What, today?" Rodney sputters, not noticing as the latke he just speared disintegrates and falls to the plate.  
  
"Yes, _today._ After the coyote attack, we all need to be ready."  
  
Rodney resumes his interrupted motion, and tastes only empty metal.  While he's gathering the scattered bits onto the back of his fork, Radek nods in agreement.  "Can not be too careful in the wilderness, Rodney.  Why, when I was a child-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Rodney cuts Radek off, ignoring a hand gesture that John doesn't know (it must be a Czech - or scientist - thing).  Rolling his eyes, Rodney says, "I know, I know, up hill, in the snow, both ways, usually chased by a Russian bear."  
  
Radek's answering gesture is easily recognized.  
  
Turning his attention to John, Rodney acquiesces.  " _Fine_... Just - no target practice near the animals or the turbine."  
  
John already knows the perfect place - a spot he and Rodney rode up to a couple of weeks ago, just before going to get the sheep.  It's far enough away so the flock won't be scared by the noise, and the slope will make a perfect backstop.  He just has to remember to take some cans to use for targets.  He says, "I'm gonna go get a shower.  You've got 30 minutes, McKay."  
  
As John starts up the stairs, he hears Rodney saying, "I'd better brew another pot of coffee, then."  He soaps up thinking about what Radek said earlier.  He ignores that his cock's at half-mast from the mere possibility that Rodney feels the same way he does.  He hears Rodney coming up the hall as he's checking his jeans in the mirror.  Satisfied that they're showing off everything he has to offer, he slips a couple packets in his pocket, just in case, and goes downstairs to wait.  
  
~*~*~  
  
When Rodney joins him on the front porch, John shows him the different parts of the shotgun.  He also demonstrates how to load it, but then ejects the shells saying that they'll reload when they're ready to start firing.  "You got it so far?"  
  
Rodney nods his agreement, so they walk over to the barn to saddle up Eula and Euclid.  As they ride out to the back forty, their conversation meanders as much as the path does.  
  
They eventually arrive at the rearmost section of Rodney's ranch.  John deliberately avoids thinking about his father's property, just beyond the fence at the top of the rise.  Rodney dismounts and leans against a large boulder to watch John ride over and set up their target cans.  It takes all of John's willpower not to imagine Rodney bent over that same rock, his heart-shaped ass bared for John's enjoyment.  He forces the delectable images away and manages to talk his erection down before leading Eula back, hoping Rodney hasn't noticed.  
  
Rodney's first few shots takes don't go anywhere near the cans lined up thirty feet away, so John - against his better judgment - puts an arm around Rodney's broad shoulders to help him aim.  The next shot is a lot better but still wide, so John tucks in even closer.  He hopes Rodney doesn't move backward against him, or he'll likely pop another hard-on.  
  
As if on cue, Rodney steps back, the cleft of his ass rubbing against John's crotch.  John can't help the hitch his hips make against Rodney's backside.  
  
"Focus," John whispers into Rodney's ear (unsure if it's for Rodney's benefit or his own), which is close enough to lick if he happens to lose his mind in the next few minutes.  Rodney inhales sharply and squeezes off a shot.  A can leaps into the air, followed a second later by its clattering landing.  "Woohoo!" John cheers as he takes off his hat and steps back to give Rodney a friendly whack in the ass.  
  
Rodney looks around with a big grin and says, "Oh, I just realized ..."  He breaks off as a blush starts to creep up his neck.  
  
"Realized what?"  
  
The blush deepens as Rodney mumbles something incoherent, staring at the ground.   
  
"What?  I didn't catch that."  
  
When Rodney finally meets John's eyes, he looks shaken.  "I thought it was déjà vu at first.  But it's, well - this is like that scene from _Brokeback Mountain_.   You know, the shooting scene."  
  
John puts his hands on his hips and calls up a smirk.  "Well, Rodney, this definitely isn’t _Brokeback Mountain_.  Unlike those two, _I brought lube_."  He reaches into his pocket and brings out the single-use sachet, along with a condom.  
  
Rodney's response is instantaneous.  He puts the shotgun down and leaps, their noses bumping as grabby hands haul John in so they're plastered together.  Rodney's tongue licks against his mouth and his own greets it eagerly.  One corner of his mind notes that he was right when he imagined that Rodney would kiss like he talks and eats - with single-minded purpose.  He can't help but moan when Rodney rolls one of his nipples between his fingers.  
  
John wallows in the sensations for a moment before pushing Rodney away with a hand on his chest.  "What?" Rodney whines (though he'd surely deny it) as John gazes into the bluest eyes he's ever seen.  "It was just getting good!"  
  
"Rodney," John starts, his voice cracking when Rodney palms him through his jeans.  " _Rodney_!" he barks.  Rodney steps back and throws up his hands.  
  
"What?  You've been flirting with me forever!  I _thought_ you were, anyway.  And you look at me like that, and you brought along lube, and ..."  Rodney stutters to a stop, looking incredulous.  "Really, shouldn't I at least be blowing you right now?"  
  
John steps in and strokes Rodney's bristly whiskers 'til he's sure he has his full and undivided attention.  "The only reason I stopped is that _that_ ," he points at the abandoned shotgun, "is still loaded."  
  
Rodney snatches it up and jacks the slide repeatedly to eject the rest of the shells.  Dropping the gun in the dirt, he turns to John.  "Happy?"  
  
"Yes, I'm happy.  Now you can ravage me," John says with a smirk.  Rodney wastes no time pulling John's shirt free of his jeans, sending mother-of-pearl buttons every which way.  When he makes equally quick work of his own before nipping at John's pulse point, John forgets all about them.  
  
Once they're naked and entwined on the blanket John packed 'just in case', he feels like he's in heaven.  Yes, Rodney _is_ his boss, but right now he's just the guy doing wicked things to John's foreskin.  His focus is amazing, and John shuts his eyes as his nipples peak in the cool morning breeze.  "Oh, god, I'm close," John declares breathlessly as Rodney's tongue makes another circuit around his cockhead.  
  
John whimpers when Rodney pulls off, but before he can protest Rodney asks, "You wanna fuck me?" while his bright blue eyes seem to look straight into John's soul.  
  
Grabbing the base of his dick to keep from coming right then, John gropes around for the lube.  "Hell, yes!"  Not finding it, he sits up to search.  He finally spots it, half-hidden under the shotgun.  " _Fuck_!"  
  
"What?"  
  
John points to the burst open packet.  He's desperate enough to calculate whether the lube splattered across the gunstock is enough, but it looks like the majority is already soaking into the dirt.  
  
Rodney looks abashed for a second, then snaps his fingers a couple of times.  "Hold that thought."  Snagging a leg of his abandoned pants, he pulls them closer and rummages through the pockets.  "A-ha!"  He holds up a packet of lube and another condom as he tosses the pants aside.  "I planned ahead, too."  
  
John's smile rivals the sun.  He leans back, tugging until Rodney's splayed on top of him.  
Rodney somehow manages to roll the condom onto John even as he kisses the breath out of him.  Only pulling away when they're both desperate for air, he positions himself above John and guides him into place.  A dazed-looking John reflexively thrusts, and pops through the muscular ring.  At Rodney's gasp they both freeze while he adjusts to the intrusion.  John spends the time admiring Rodney's naked form.  
  
When Rodney starts moving, the clench of his ass nearly drives John insane.  John bucks up as Rodney plays with his chest hair with one hand while jacking his own dick with the other.  "Like that, John..." Rodney gasps as John's cock relentlessly targets his prostate.  
  
John slows down to draw out their pleasure, and smiles when Rodney's strokes match his rhythm.  He feels Rodney tighten around him and knows he's close, so he tugs at one of the pebbled nipples that have taunted him through a succession of clinging shirts.  Then he pulls Rodney's hand away from his dick.  
  
Rodney looks down in confusion.  "John?" he gasps as John hits his prostate again.  
  
"I want to watch you come on just my cock," John says, increasing his tempo.  His thighs are burning, but he can't stop.  He can feel Rodney's cock smearing sticky pre-come across his stomach.  
  
A few strokes later Rodney's face flushes as he yells, "Oh, god...  John.  Fuck me, John."   
  
John feels Rodney's ass clamp tight around his cock as he starts to come.  "Oh, Jesus... Oh, fuck.  Don't stop, John.  Oh..."  Rodney shoots across John's chest and stomach and the spasms drop him into a powerful orgasm as he continues to thrust into Rodney’s smooth heat.  
  
Rodney collapses on top of John as they concentrate on catching their breath.  At some point, John slips out of Rodney, so he pulls off the condom and tosses it aside.  Rodney starts kissing him slow and easy and John gets lost in the sensation.  He couldn't begin to guess how much time passes before they reluctantly pull apart.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The ride back to the house seems very relaxed, but John spends it trying to conceal a major freak-out.  It's not that he didn't want to fuck Rodney, or do it again in the future (or let him return the favor).  John is silently losing his shit because he just slept with his boss.  And not just his ranch boss.  His high-profile engineering project boss, too.  Which makes Rodney his boss twice over.  Shitshitshit!!  If this ends up like all his other relationships ...  He can't even complete that thought.  
  
In any case, as a super-animated post-coital Rodney babbles, John thinks he's hiding it pretty well.  He's never been much of a conversationalist, and Rodney's talking enough for both of them.  He spins out ideas about the ranch and placement of future windmills, and even manages to raise a small smile from John by getting in a jab at Patrick Sheppard.  
  
By the time they get back and settle the horses, John is in the midst of a full-bore panic attack that he's desperate to hide from Rodney.  It's just unlucky that Ronon meets them on the porch, as his assessing look and concerned, "Sheppard?" tip Rodney off that something's awry.  
  
Invading John's personal bubble as only he feels free to do, Rodney studies him with concern, "John?"  
  
"Just give me a minute, okay?" John asks as he pulls Rodney into the house.  John can hear Radek in the shower upstairs, so they're as alone as they can be.  
  
Rodney's eyes search John's face, and he asks, "What's wrong?  Did I screw something up?  Oh, god.  I _always_ screw something up.  I mean, I'm not really all that good at relationships, and-"  
  
John winces, because he would definitely be interested in a relationship with Rodney, but all he can think about is how he's fucked up his future by fucking the boss.  "Rodney," he says, staring at his boots like the right words might magically appear on them.  
  
"But, this.  You know, I think this is pretty awesome.  And the sex... The sex was _so hot_ , and _please_ don't freak out."  
  
" _Rodney_!" John says, reaching out to clasp Rodney's arm.  Rodney falls silent.  
  
When he finally makes himself look up, he can see the hurt in Rodney's eyes, along with a clear expectation of disappointment.  And dammit, the last thing John wants to do is hurt Rodney.  He takes a deep, steadying breath, and blows out a sigh.   
  
"Look," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he'd mostly grown out of, that started back up after the run-in with his father.   John can't meet Rodney's eye, because every time he does, he sees the pain he's caused.  "I just," he starts.  He clears his throat.  "You're an awesome guy, Rodney."  
  
"Oh god," Rodney says.  "Are you already tired of me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Looking up from where he's staring at the floor, Rodney does a pretty good job of tamping down what looks like anxiety.  "It happens."  Jutting out his chin, he adds, "Usually not this fast-"  
  
John holds one hand out to cut him off.  "I mean it, Rodney, you **are** awesome.  And I really like you.  It's just..."  John scuffs his boots against the old wooden floors.  "I'm not sure about this, us."  He gestures between them.  "It's just, you're my boss."  
  
Rodney barks a relieved laugh.  "Is that all?"  He steps into John's personal space.  "So I'll move you to be under Radek-"  
  
"Who works for _you_!"  
  
" _Fine_!" Rodney counters.  "You can work under Sam."  
  
"Sam?" John asks, momentarily diverted.  "Who is this Sam guy, anyway?"  
  
"Girl," Rodney corrects.  "Sam, is... Well, she's _almost_ as smart as I am.  And she has the nicest pair of," Rodney pantomimes holding a pair of coconuts, before he blushes and says, "legs."  
  
Just like that, his freak-out surges like a bonfire, and the accelerant is jealously.  John knows he has no claim on Rodney, but the feeling takes up residence in his hindbrain all the same.  "You're still my boss here on the ranch."  
  
"That's easily solved," Rodney grins.  "I'll just fire you."  His utter smugness is adorable, and John fights the urge to kiss him smack dab in the middle of it.  
  
The squeaky third stair announces Radek's approach, and John glances back in time to see him freeze in the doorway, stopped by the tense atmosphere he's stumbled into.  John steps closer to Rodney and lowers his voice.  "I just need some time, okay?"  
  
Rodney folds his arms over his chest protectively and John sees the hurt flash across his face.  He's torn between three poles:  he doesn't want to hurt Rodney, he doesn't want to mess up the nearly perfect life he's fallen into, and he definitely doesn't want to destroy whatever it is that he's starting with Rodney.  But how can he manage all three?  He needs to get out and work with the sheep.  He's always found that strenuous physical labor - the kind that leaves his muscles aching - frees up his mind to find a course through complicated situations.  
  
John reaches out to squeeze Rodney's bicep reassuringly.  
  
Rodney hesitantly says, "Okay."  He gives John a look that would be more convincing if he didn't know him so well.  
  
John touches the brim of his hat and, nodding to Rodney, turns around.  "Dr. Z."  He steps past Radek and out into the warm afternoon.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John doesn't reappear until late that afternoon, grimy, sweat-streaked, and favoring his right knee.  He shrugs off Ronon's pointed glare when Rodney yells, "DINNER!" out the kitchen door.  Instead, he decides it's the perfect time to install a couple extra outlets in the break room trailer.  Sure, the workers have all flown back home, but once the turbine's energy production proves viable - which should be any day now - they'll be back to erect more.  
  
The sun is nearly below the horizon when John shuts the barn door.  He knows he should eat, or at least go shower away the reek of lanolin.  Not content with procrastination by electrical work, he's sheared a half-dozen sheep singlehanded, and convinced Kepler to let him clip a couple of mats off his belly.  When the photocell he installed last week triggers the front porch light at dusk, he throws in the towel and slouches toward the door like he's going to his doom.  
  
His boots sound like thunder on the wide oak planks of the porch, masking any sound from inside.  John hopes Rodney and Radek have called it a night, but has no such luck.  He finds them engrossed in their laptops at the kitchen table, the click of the keys competing with the incomplete sentences they're muttering in each other's direction.  "Evening, fellas," he says, putting his hat on the coat rack by the door.  
  
Rodney looks up, his expression a mix of hope and uncertainty.  "Um, hi.  I saved you a plate.  Believe me, it wasn't easy to fend off the hungry caveman."  
  
John gives Rodney's shoulder a squeeze.  "Thanks, buddy.”  He hopes the gesture will set Rodney's mind at ease, even while his own is still filled with turmoil.  Despite the day's labors, he hasn't come up with a viable solution to his quandary.  He collects the wrapped plate from the counter, plucks a fork from the drainer, and grabs a beer from the refrigerator before continuing right out to the back porch.  
  
The closing door cuts off Rodney's sigh.  
  
The night is warm, and mysterious beyond the circle cast by the dusk-to-dawn light, twin to the one on the front porch.  John watches agitated moths circling the bulb and picks at his plate, not especially hungry but knowing he needs the fuel after a long day.  Only the beer and Rodney's cornbread seem appealing, but he forces himself to eat half the pork chop and most of the green beans before calling it quits.  Setting his plate on the railing, he walks out into the Wyoming night he loves.  He takes a deep breath to catch the fading scent of bitter root, whose flowers have closed up for the evening.  The moon dodges coyly behind a butte, leaving inky pools of shadow strewn across the valley but exposing the Milky Way sprawling grandly above him.  He contemplates his life as he takes in the great expanse of sky.  
  
The door clicks open, and John turns to find Rodney watching from the porch.  "We're gonna turn in," Rodney announces, the hesitance in his tone reminding John that he's not alone in these issues he's struggling with.  
  
"Okay.  I'll be up shortly."  John nods before returning his gaze to the sky, but can't concentrate on the stars sparkling overhead until the door snicks closed.  Pushing the disappointment in Rodney's eyes out of his thoughts, he focuses on the distant points of light until some of the tension in his shoulders drops away.  
  
John sees Rodney's light go out from the corner of his eye.  Finishing off his beer, he picks up his plate and carries it inside.  After dumping the scraps and stacking the plate in the sink, he pauses at the bottom of the stairs before going upstairs.  He notices Rodney's door is open, and glances inside.  Rodney's propped against the headboard, writing in a journal with a red marker.  John must make a noise, because Rodney looks up and catches his eye.  He gives John a brief smile, which John acknowledges with a quick nod.  John fights the almost magnetic pull toward Rodney and trudges off to his own room.  
  
Shedding his dusty shirt and grubby jeans renews the strong lanolin smell, making him glad he ate outside.  He'd have likely driven Rodney and Radek out of the kitchen with his stench.   He grabs his towel and sleep pants before heading to the bathroom down the hall.  After turning the hot faucet to warm up, he tosses his towel across the sink and drops his boxers.  Adjusting the temp just a tad, he climbs under the spray and lets it sluice away the dust and remaining tension.  A couple of thorough latherings and a rinse later, he figures he's fit for company again, so he cuts off the water and steps out, wraps the towel around his hips, and brushes his teeth thinking of Rodney.  
  
When he's finished, he gets dressed and quietly opens the door.  He hears soft snores coming from Rodney's room, and peeks in, seeing him hugging his pillow tightly.  An irrational jealousy surges, and he fights the urge to take its place in Rodney's bed.  Instead, he goes to his room, where he tosses and turns for what feels like hours before finally dropping into a fitful sleep.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John is startled out of a dreamless sleep by the sound of an all-too-familiar engine racing toward the house.  He's in the hall before he's fully awake, and at the top the stairs when a truck door slams.  The drunken voice spewing slurred words fills him with disgust and dread.  He silently descends the stairs, even as angry words pierce the formerly-quiet night outside.  John feels a presence behind him as he reaches the hall.  
  
"John?"  Rodney's big blue eyes are full of concern.  
  
 "Just stay behind me," John finally says, opening the door but not stepping out.  
  
As soon as his father glimpses the motion, he bellows, "Jonathan Andrew Sheppard!"  Most of the sheep in the nearest pasture start moving away from the unfamiliar (and therefore, frightening) noise.  
  
"What do you want, Dad?" John asks through gritted teeth.  He wants to call him 'Mr. Sheppard', but decides further provocation wouldn't be smart.  He can feel Rodney plastered against his back, even as he concentrates on his drunken father.  He starts to ask Rodney to back up, but a glint of metal catches his eye.  Realizing that it's a shotgun, he pushes Rodney back and toward the front room, ignoring his sputtered protests.  
  
When the barrels start to track toward John, the distinctive click of hammers locking back comes from the darkness beyond the truck.  " **Don't**."  
  
Patrick Sheppard whips around in surprise, nearly losing his balance.  Though John can't make Ronon out, he can see the triple muzzle steadied across the hood, and imagine the deadly glare his father is on the wrong end of.  Patrick snorts defiantly before breaking the shotgun open and letting it hang from the crook of his arm.  
  
When the elder Sheppard turns back toward the house, John can almost see the contempt dripping from his expression.  John watches his father realize that Rodney's behind him in the hall.  "So you _are_ fucking him," Patrick sneers.  
  
John takes a deep, steadying breath.  "I distinctly remember telling you my private life is no longer your concern."  His voice doesn't quaver, and the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach is banished by the Rodney's proprietary hand on his hip.  
  
"With all due respect Mr. Sheppard," Rodney says, nudging John over a tad, "kindly go fuck yourself."  
  
"Goddamn faggots!"  Patrick snaps the shotgun closed.  Before he can pull it into firing position, thunder sounds from the darkness, and Patrick Sheppard's prized Remington hits the dirt in a twist of broken metal and shattered wood.  
  
At the same time, Rodney yanks John into the house and steps out on the porch, pulling the door shut and keeping hold of the knob.  John, unwilling to distract him with a tug-of-war, pushes the curtain aside and watches through the ornamental window.  
  
"Get the hell off our land right now, Mr. Sheppard," Rodney demands.  
  
The drunken rancher opens his mouth, but once again the sound of a shotgun being readied echoes across the night and tempers his actions.  After spying John through the door's oval window, he spits into the dust, but climbs into his pickup without another word.  Rooster tails of dirt spring up as he peels out and races down the driveway.  His taillights eventually disappear, followed by the sound of his engine.  
  
Rodney finally lets go of the door, and John steps out on the porch.  Ronon joins them a moment later, shotgun over his arm.  "All right?"  
  
"Yeah," John replies, reaching out to rub Rodney's back.  
  
After unscrewing the porch light, Ronon shifts the rocking chair into the dimmest corner.  "I'll sleep here tonight."  
  
"Thanks, Dex," John says, before pulling Rodney into the house.  
  
When the latch clicks, John suddenly has an armful of Rodney.  They both soak in the comfort for a moment, then Rodney draws back and gives him a searching look. John tentatively cups Rodney's chin before leaning in for a chaste kiss.  He drops his hand, only to have Rodney envelop it in his own.    
  
"You okay?"  
  
John smiles as he squeezes back.  "I am now."  
  
They climb the stairs in silence, still hand in hand and pause at Rodney’s room.  Instead of leaving him on the threshold, John continues to the bed, tugging Rodney behind him.  
  
"John?" Rodney says tentatively.  "I don't want to...  You know - push it, but-"  
  
Before he can finish, John pulls him in for another kiss, longer and deeper than the last.  Drawing back, he says, "I'd like to stay in here tonight, if that's okay."  He knows it's only partially to keep Rodney safe, and mostly because it's where he wants - no, _needs_ to be.  
  
"Tonight.  Tomorrow.  Forever," Rodney says quietly.  "As long as you'll have me."  
  
John gets the same feeling he had the first time he rode a Ferris wheel.  The one he feels every time he defies gravity behind the controls of an airplane.  This time, though, it's due to Rodney, and John wonders if this is what love feels like.   
  
Because - he realizes - when it comes to Rodney, forever sounds just about right.  
  
~*~*~  
  
John wakes up comfortably tangled with Rodney.  He'd kicked off the blankets at some point, since his own personal furnace amply counteracted the crisp night air.  Kepler's splayed out between his shoulder blades, just visible in his peripheral vision.  John reaches back to pet him and scruff his ears, prompting a grumbling yawn before the cat gets up and stretches 'til he vibrates.  He tromps down the length of John's spine before hopping off the bed and out of sight.  
  
John manages to untangle himself from Rodney without waking him and pads downstairs, finding Radek hunched over his laptop and possessively clutching a mug of coffee.  "Morning, Radek," John says as he goes to the front door.  He opens the door, the empty porch confirming that Ronon's already out working with the flock.  
  
When he closes the door and turns around, Radek is studying him.  "What was disturbance last night?"  
  
John waves a dismissive hand. "Don't ask."  
  
Radek nods and sips his coffee as he resumes studying his screen.  John, getting his own coffee, hears him muttering something uncomplimentary sounding in a foreign tongue.   "John, come take a look at this."   
  
It's a graph with colored lines and a jumble of numbers he might be better able to decipher with some caffeine on board.  As he lifts his mug, a pattern leaps out and his heart sinks, freezing his hand in mid-motion.  
  
"What am I looking at?" John asks, hoping he's wrong.  
  
"Mass spectrometer reading of your well water," Radek replies.   
  
John squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.  _Jesus!_   He opens them again to stare at the screen in disbelief.  The report outlines a caustic stew of heavy metals and other chemicals.  Something in it tickles his memory, but Radek's question drops the last puzzle piece in place.  "Has somebody been fracking around here?"  
  
It all makes sense.  The Clayton County Mineral Report on his father's desk.  The secret barn full of heavy equipment, and the men John _knew_ weren't field hands.  Patrick Sheppard, not satisfied with the profits from running cattle, is fracking the rocky, fragile terrain.  It explains everything except why _their_ well is contaminated.  
  
"I guess so," John says, "but nowhere near the well.  It's at least four miles away."  
  
"So, you know who?" Radek prompts.  
  
John takes a long sip of coffee, silently cursing his father.  "I've got an idea, yeah.  But," he gestures to the back of the house, "Rodney's well is behind us to the west.  How could it affect that?"  
  
Radek scratches his chin.  "Have you heard of horizontal drilling?"  
  
As the ramifications of Radek's question sinks in, sorrow and anger fight for dominance.  The tangle of feelings burst out of him in a single, "Fuck!"  
  
~*~*~  
  
When Rodney comes down an hour later, John and Radek are having a heated discussion about possible resolutions to the situation.  John lets Rodney get a cup of coffee in him before apprising him of the new information.  
  
"Wait... He's _what_?"  
  
"If Dr. Z is correct, my fucking father is not only fracking his own land, he's doing horizontal drilling into _yours_ , too.  And that's what's wrong with our water."  He finishes off his coffee and gets up to grab the pot, refilling everyone's cup before emptying the carafe into his own.   
  
"That son of a bitch," Rodney spits.  He immediately glances at John, contrite.  "Sorry."  
  
"Don't worry about it," John says, "It's nothing but the truth."  Thoughts of his father's perfidy burn like a branding iron.  "Anyway, Radek's been teaching me to cuss him out in Czech."  
  
"Ano.  On je rychlý studie," Radek beams.  
  
After breakfast, Rodney calls Pegasus Power Systems' legal department for advice.  Turns out, an organization on the cusp of becoming the leading global green energy provider really wants to avoid the embarrassment of fracking happening on their land, even involuntarily.  (Maybe _especially_ involuntarily.)  Reassured that preparations are being made for every contingency the lawyers can brainstorm, John and Rodney leave for town, where they report the goings on to Sheriff Teyla Emmagan.   
  
Clayton County's first female Sheriff (despite a smear campaign by Patrick's cronies) has presided over a 45% decrease in crime in the fifteen months since she took office.  Her takedown of Ronon two weeks before the election, when he was belligerently drunk and tossing all comers out the saloon's front window, swayed a lot of voters to her side.  Especially when Tom Dupree - whose maiden flight shattered the glass - sang her praises at the town picnic.  _I'm still not sure just how she did it, but he was whimperin' under a table in about four seconds flat!_  
  
After hearing them out, she grabs her radio and sidearm, chivvies them out of the office, and hops into her official vehicle.  She must be as pissed as they are, because she nearly loses them a couple of times on the 35-minute drive to the ranch.  Rodney pulls up behind her and shuts off the engine.  
  
Sheppard clearly saw them coming up the lane, and steps out of the house to greet them.  He'd look a lot friendlier if he didn't have a twin to the destroyed shotgun slung over his shoulder.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Sheppard," Sheriff Emmagan says politely as she gets out of the SUV.  John sees his dad sneering as he and Rodney climb out of the hybrid, no doubt because it's nothing more than 'a sissy city car' in his opinion.  
  
"What do you want, Emmagan?" Patrick Sheppard spits.  
  
John sees Sheriff Emmagan cock her head, and set her jaw.  She shoots a glance at John, an unspoken command to wait by the car.  Pulling a sheaf of papers from the passenger seat, she walks over to the steps and presents them.  "I need to search your property, Mr. Sheppard."  
  
Spitting into the dirt at her feet, says, "I don't give you permission for shit.  Now _get off my land_."  
  
"Well, Mr. Sheppard.  This search warrant signed by Judge O’Neill means that I don't really need your permission.  Please make it easy on yourself and step aside."  
  
Sheppard decides to cock his shotgun instead.  Teyla's first response is an impatient sigh.  
  
"Put the shotgun down, Mr. Sheppard, or I will have no choice but to arrest you."  
  
Patrick Sheppard snorts.  "You just try, little girl.  Then we'll se-"  Suddenly, his hands are empty and he's spinning around to smack up against the door.  He struggles ineffectually as Teyla makes quick work of cuffing him.  "You god damned-"  
  
Teyla leans the shotgun against the door jamb, then uses the handcuff chain to tug Sheppard away from the door.  She frogmarches him to the porch glider and deposits him on it.  " _Sit there_ and **_be quiet_**!"  She watches him flounder, knowing he can't escape from the high-hanging glider's deep cushions without help.  Taking a deep breath to center herself, she gives the red-faced rancher a brief, professional smile.   
  
"We came out here peacefully, Mr. Sheppard, unlike your visit last night.  Right now your choices are: calm down and come with us while I look around, or wait in the back of my truck.  Which will it be?"  
  
Sheppard glares at the mountains in the distance.  When he offers nothing but flared nostrils and short, angry breaths, Teyla hauls him to his feet and off the porch.  "Dr. McKay?"  
  
Still in shock at her quick handling of the situation, Rodney doesn't take her meaning for a second.  "Hmm?  What?  Oh, yes, certainly."  He opens the rear door and stands back as Sherriff Emmagan guides the fuming man into the back seat.  Once his seatbelt is fastened, she undoes one cuff and refastens it through a heavy iron ring welded to the metal screen separating the cage from the front seat.  
  
Teyla shuts the door and turns to John.  "Well, that was invigorating.  So do you know where they might have set up?"  
  
"Yeah, out the back forty."  Ignoring his father's death glare, John says, "Dad had a couple golf carts outfitted for rough terrain.  C'mon."   
  
They walk over to the pole barn, pull off the protective tarps, and unplug the carts from the charger.  
  
Sherriff Emmagan, obviously familiar with the controls, hops in the nearest one and drives off the concrete slab.  Rodney stops short next to the other, staring at its oversized wheels and roll bar.  "No _seatbelts_?!  Tell me this thing isn't rigged to go over," glancing at the speedometer, "12 miles per hour."  
  
John grins wickedly.  "Remember how I like things that go really, really fast?"   
  
Rodney gulps, but climbs in and gets set; gripping the door opening and seatback, and shoving his feet hard against the floor.  He's braced for the worst when John floors it, but the cart just slides out of the parking slot and sedately follows the Sherriff's tracks out into the yard.  Rodney gives John an annoyed backhand to the shoulder, but it just makes him laugh harder.   
  
Standing in the open driver-side door of her SUV, Teyla arches an eyebrow in inquiry.  John tries to explain but can't stop laughing (' _honking', more like_ , his mental Rodney-voice comments).  He eventually gives up and waves off the question.  His good spirits are infectious, and she finds herself smiling while the last two windows finish rolling down.  After collecting three bottles of water from the seat, she shuts the door, and addresses her prisoner.  
  
"Mr. Sheppard, you are in the shade, the high today is only 66°, and you have a bottle of water.  Clean water, even.  The State Police will be arriving within thirty minutes to transport you to my office.  I advise you to wait quietly for them, and cooperate when they get here.  They are not nearly as patient as I am."  
  
She hands Rodney two of the bottles as she passes, then remotely locks the SUV doors before getting settled in her cart.  "Gentlemen."  Regal as a queen in a coronation carriage, she steers for the far corner of the ranch.  
  
"Wow."  Rodney forgets his earlier safety concerns as they set off behind her.  After watching the scenery and thinking for a while, he breaks the silence.  "Is she some sort of magician?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"She conjured a search warrant out of thin air, took your father down like a toddler even though he has at least eight inches on her, somehow summoned the State Police, apparently has a direct line to NOAA, and just _happens_ to have bottled water on hand.  Feel this, Sheppard, this water is _ice cold_!  
  
Teyla doesn't respond to Rodney's typically exuberant outburst, but the set of her shoulders tells John she's very amused.  
  
"Well.  I suspect she arranged most of that on the drive."  
  
"But, but ... a search warrant?  It was _signed_.  And the water?  How does that work?  
  
John laughs.  "Rodney, Wyoming only seems like it's stuck in the Old West.  Cops out here patrol huge territories - they can't just drop by the station.  Their cars are equipped like mobile offices so they can scan, fax, or print whatever they need.  There aren't a lot of convenience stores around either, but a good ice chest can keep stuff cold for days."  
  
"I guess that makes sense.  Still, the way she handled your dad..." he trails off.  
  
"Well, she does have a two-year-old."   
  
This time Rodney has the giggle fit.  Once he recovers, he asks, "So… why aren't we taking our cars, or even horses?"  
  
"For one thing, I doubt yours could make it - the last mile isn't really a road.  Hell, it's barely a track. The SUV would be fine but we don't want them to hear us coming.   Same reason for the horses - any stock they have out there'd likely whicker when they smell 'em coming and give us away.  
  
"Hnh."   
  
A couple of minutes later Rodney asks, "And why didn't we take your dad's truck?"  
  
John gapes at him for a long moment, then deliberately turns and stares fixedly front.  "We should be quiet from here on.  Sound really carries and we'll be there in two minutes."   
  
At the barn, they find a few confused workers standing around.  Teyla pulls up and parks.  "Stay here, please."  She walks over to the group of men with her hand on her sidearm.   
  
Rodney's nearly twitching with need to get into the building and find out what's going on, so John distracts him by threading his fingers through Rodney's and gesturing at the western horizon.  
  
"See that?"  
  
Rodney squints, then leans forward like that will help.  "What am I looking at?"  
  
"The windmill," John says.  "Even miles away, you can still see it."  He takes in a deep breath, taking comfort from Rodney's presence.  "Can you imagine what it'll look like when they're all up and running?"  
  
Rodney squeezes John's hand.  "I already know how I want _my_ future to look."  
  
~*~*~  
  
John lands the Cessna and taxies to the hangar, which also houses the site workshop.  After the post-flight checks, he carries the aerial survey maps into the house and through to the study, where Rodney has four laptops open.  
  
"Seventy-two through seventy-six should be online by the end of the week.  And the crews are nearly done clearing the next half-dozen sites."  
  
Patrick Sheppard's precipitous tumble from king of the hill to lowest inmate on the cell block cost him everything, starting with the social standing he'd put so much stock in.  After his crimes were exposed, the cronies and toadies he'd once commanded eagerly pretended they'd never been in his sway.  Over the course of multiple trials, he was forced to sell the ranch to cover legal fees, civil  & criminal fines, damages, and reparations for polluting vast quantities of ground water (including what Judge Jonathan O'Neill characterized as _The best damn fishin' hole in Wyoming)._  
  
Pegasus Power snapped up the land, quadrupling its Wyoming holdings in one fell swoop.  Now there are windmills as far as the eye can see, supplying power to all points west of the Continental Divide (excepting only Las Vegas and Reno).  Rodney and Radek figure they’ll have enough windmills to handle the rest of the United States in just under seventeen years.  (Last week, John heard them estimating Canada and Mexico's power needs.)  
  
Still typing at warp speed, Rodney tilts his cheek for a kiss, saying, "Ronon was looking for you.  Something about the weekly inseminations?"  He finishes his email, hits send, and then looks John up and down.  "You know, after you're done inseminating the sheep..."  
  
Leaning in to kiss Rodney, John's surprised laughter makes him land one on his ear instead.  When he recovers, he reaches for Rodney's hand and pulls him out of the chair.  "Jesus, Rodney - that's your worst line so far!"  
  
Rodney half-heartedly resists as he's hauled away from his office, but digs his heels in when they reach the stairs.  "Wait, what?  Where are we going?"  
  
John crowds Rodney back against the wall in order to kiss him thoroughly.  "Just 'cause the line was cheesy doesn't mean it didn't work."  
  



	2. The Ranch By Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, now moved into Rodney's bed from the room across the hall, carried the burden of the day with him. So it was up to Rodney to try and distract him and keep insomnia at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Brumeier](https://brumeier.dreamwidth.org)'s prompt: Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, insomnia

Rodney was pretty much able to sleep anytime, anywhere. His time as a research scientist had led him to the four corners of the Earth, relaxing in the most luxurious of hotels, to a bedroll on the forest floor. Now that he was settled in Wyoming, and John moved from the bedroom across the hall and laid claim to the left side of Rodney's bed, he figured he would sleep even better. Having a warm, comforting presence should have given him even more reassurance in life. But John carried the burden of his father with him, even to bed. So more often than not, John laid next to Rodney, taking hours to find slumber. And when John couldn't sleep, Rodney usually couldn't either.

While still laying on his side, Rodney reached behind him until he found John's hand. He took it in his own and smiled when he felt John squeeze it gently.

"Go to sleep, Rodney."

Rodney turned over, trying not to jostle the bed too much. He settled next to John and put his hand on John's chest. "I _would_ , but you're thinking far too loud," Rodney replied. He'd meant it as a joke, though John's smile was fleeting. "It's gonna be okay," he whispered. Even as the words came from his mouth, it surprised him. Rodney was far from the nurturing type. But there was something about John that made Rodney _want_ to care, made him want to be a better person.

John turned to his side, and Rodney watched as the slice of moonlight that filled their bedroom played over John's eyes. When John was out on the ranch, be it on horseback as he led Rodney around the property or helping Ronon with the sheep, his eyes would be bright as a peacock's plumage, with just as many gold and dark flecks. But when he held in the weight of the world, his eyes would be dark as a night in the fields. And as Rodney searched them, he saw nothing but darkness. "Sorry," John whispered.

Rodney smiled, then climbed on top of John, which caused John's lips to quirk up at the sides. He then raised John's hands above his head and pinned them there, as he leaned down and licked John's pulse point, tasting the sweat of a hot summer's day that covered John's neck. He then kissed his way up John's jaw and bit at John's lips until they parted. Rodney dragged his tongue over John's, and John responded by grinding his crotch against Rodney's. He was already hard, which made Rodney smile, as well as appreciate John's penchant for sleeping naked.

Rodney leaned up, then let go of John's hands. He braced himself as he started to lick his way down John's chest, stopping to nip at John's left nipple, then right. John's hands went to Rodney's sides. And as he groaned, Rodney kept licking. He got to John's bellybutton, where he dragged his tongue across the trail of dark hair that trailed down into John's crotch. He climbed down the bed just a bit more, then grabbed the base of John's cock. He rubbed the weeping head against his cheek, knowing the stubble against the sensitive cockhead would drive John wild.

He caught John's eyes gazing down at him as Rodney tentatively licked the head of John's cock. John was first to break the gaze as he leaned his head back and thrust his cock towards Rodney's warm mouth, so Rodney obliged him. He took John's cock down to the root, as his fingers gripped at John's balls. John's cock dripped sweet precome on Rodney's tongue, which Rodney swallowed hungrily. When he finally released it, he licked his palm and started to slowly jack John's cock as he leaned further down, and took John's balls into his mouth, pulling them gently at first, then just a touch rougher, and enjoyed watching John shatter beneath him. 

Rodney sat up and took in the naked, panting flesh that was laid out before him. He was beyond lucky to have found John. But as John handed him the lube, he smiled and thanked the universe for letting John into his life, into his bed.

He started teasing John's hole with a single finger, mesmerized at John as he buried himself into his pillow, his hands reaching for a nipple, or grazing over his belly. He loved being able to do this to John. Seeing John without worry was something he wished he could do for his boyfriend every day. At least that way he could keep insomnia at bay. But until then, he was happy to help any way he could.

"Okay," John said, breathlessly. So Rodney pulled his foreskin back and lubed his cock, then took John's ankles over his shoulders. He leaned forward and put the head of his cock against John's hole, and then leaned closer until his lips were a hair's breath away from John's. John leaned up and took Rodney's mouth as Rodney gently pushed through John's tight ring, and groaned into a kiss that John greedily swallowed. Rodney squeezed his eyes shut because if he looked at John, he knew he would lose it in seconds.

It only took a few moments for John to get used to Rodney's cock. He nodded his head as Rodney finally opened his eyes, and Rodney pulled almost all the way out, then thrust forward until his the head of his cock grazed against John's prostate. He straightened and held John's feet, licking and nipping at the flesh just above John's ankle. He kept thrusting as John lowered his legs and dug his ankles into Rodney's ass, pulling Rodney closer, forcing him deeper.

"Come for me. Come for me, John," Rodney said as he pistoned his hips faster and faster. He could feel John tightening around him, and knew that John was close, so he pulled back and pushed harder and deeper with each thrust. He reached and grabbed John's hands, then put them to John's chest where they roamed over nipples, over sensitive skin until Rodney leaned down and captured John's cock between their bellies. John made little movements with his crotch and cried out, Rodney feeling squirt after squirt of John's come as it oozed between their bellies. And when John's orgasm was finally spent, Rodney leaned up, thrust several quick times, and then emptied himself deep inside his lover.

Rodney collapsed onto John once again, now exhausted. Still, he managed to get up, pad to the bathroom, and clean himself up before going to the bed and running a warm washcloth over John's sweat-glistened flesh. John pulled him down, so Rodney tossed the washcloth toward the bathroom, and crawled into bed where he got behind John, then pulled him close.

John was asleep between one breath and the next, and Rodney quickly followed.


End file.
